


Allegiance

by Bookwrm389



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Pre Canon Backstories, lots of headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 06:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 89,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17934848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwrm389/pseuds/Bookwrm389
Summary: When the Eastern Rebellion came to an end, one man looked on his comrades with the eyes of a king. And he made an unspoken vow to protect them from those who would throw their lives away. With his own hands, he would protect those directly below him, and they in turn would protect those below them. And so it would follow until everyone was safe.But he couldn't do it alone.And so he found us. One by one, we became his soldiers and he became our leader. We are Colonel Roy Mustang's most loyal subordinates, and these are our stories.





	1. Second Lieutenant Jean Havoc

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FF.net

Romantic music and warm light streamed out the windows of the upscale restaurant, flooding the dark street outside. The atmosphere made passersby carry themselves a little higher as they caught the mood, and Havoc couldn't help but smile as he leaned against a nearby lamppost waiting for his date to show up. They had only met that afternoon and things were already looking promising. Melinda had seemed impressed that he was a soldier and never mind that he wasn't very far up the ranks and didn't plan on going much farther.

Running a hand though his cropped hair, Havoc let out a rueful chuckle. Well, maybe she was just one of those girls who couldn't bear to hurt a guy's feelings by turning him down. But pity date or not, he wasn't about to let the opportunity slide. Not when, for  _once_ , he was actually feeling quite confident and jovial, even a little suave.

Yep, this was going to be a  _very_  good night.

Spotting a taxi down the road, Havoc recognized Melinda's profile in the backseat and hastily snuffed out his cigarette. Most women didn't like his habit, and Havoc generally waited until the third or fourth date to introduce them to it. If there was one thing he despised more than being dumped, it was a cancer lecture over his chicken alfredo. What a way to kill the mood.

The taxi pulled up to the curb, and Melinda smiled shyly when Havoc gallantly opened the door and offered her a hand. She stepped out, blushing up a cute little storm. "That's so sweet of you to wait outside for me, Jean. Especially when it's so chilly out here."

"Ah...it was nothing," Havoc replied, wishing he'd had time to come up with something more dashing. Like 'I'd never leave a lady out in the cold' or 'I didn't want to miss a moment of your beautiful smile'. Crap,  _why_ did these things always come to him a few seconds too late? To make up for it, Havoc held out his arm for her to take. Melinda giggled at the mock-formality and linked arms with him as they strode into the restaurant like they owned the place. The seating hostess was all smiles as she showed them to their table.

Havoc had really splurged on this place. Everything inside, from the décor to the food to the guests, radiated a ridiculously expensive aura. Most of the tables were already taken by preoccupied couples who didn't even look up as they walked by. The only loner was a man with dark hair and broad shoulders sitting at the table directly beside theirs. Black, slanted eyes studied the two of them, and Havoc automatically went stiff under their inspection. He nodded a greeting, which was returned coolly. Even out of uniform, soldiers knew their own.

And he didn't miss the way Melinda's eyes roved over the stranger momentarily, though she had the grace to quickly zip her attention back to Havoc as soon as they passed and look mildly ashamed of herself. But Havoc was taking no chances and steered Melinda into a seat that would place her back-to-back with the other soldier and thus unable to make eyes at him. He ordered a bottle of wine for them both and the waiter scurried off, leaving them alone.

Now came the part he sometimes had trouble with. The awkward art of making conversation.

"I've never been here before," Melinda said in awe, glancing around. "I'd  _never_  been able to afford it."

Havoc winced, fancying he could feel the hole being chewed into his wallet. "Yeah, neither could I. But I figured, what the heck, might as well make a good first impression."

"Which you are ruining as you speak."

Havoc blinked at the unexpected intrusion, and Melinda looked over her shoulder in surprise. The black-haired soldier glanced back at them with a knowing look. "Trust me, she doesn't want to hear about how poor you are and how much poorer you will be by the end of the evening. In fact, since this looks like a first date, you really should leave financial issues out of the conversation entirely."

"I don't see where that's any of your damn business," Havoc said as calmly as he could, though he was bristling inside.

"Swearing should also be kept to a minimum, lest she think you unsophisticated," the man advised carelessly. He turned to Melinda suddenly and held out his hand with a charismatic smile. "Allow me to apologize for interrupting your evening, Miss...?"

"Oh, um," Melinda stammered, blushing again. "S-Sundry. Melinda Sundry."

The stranger took her hand and, to Havoc's outrage, gently kissed the back. "Lieutenant Colonel Roy Mustang. The Flame Alchemist."

Melinda's eyes grew wide at the title, and Havoc barely resisted the urge to snarl and smack their hands apart. Great, just  _great_. Not just another solder, but a freaking  _alchemist_. They were the stuff of legends out here in the east. Why couldn't the seating hostess have sat them next to a plumber or a homeless guy or something?

Luckily, the waiter arrived with their wine, and Mustang released his date. Melinda turned back to Havoc with not a little reluctance, and he cast around quickly for something to restore the mood. "So...so you never told me what you do for a living, Melinda! Wait, let me guess. Teacher?"

Melinda smiled modestly. "I'm a veterinarian, actually."

"Wow," Havoc commented. "No offense, but you don't look it. What kinds of animals to you care for?"

"Just pets mostly, like dogs and cats," Melinda said with a little pride. "Birds too, sometimes. Although you wouldn't believe what strange things people bring into my office and call their pets."

"Sounds like you'd never have a dull day on the job," Havoc said, grinning.

"It's not always so great," Melinda murmured. "Just the other day, I had a cat die on the operating table. It can be so hard to break the news to a client, especially if they've had their pet for a long time."

Havoc hesitated, unsure of what to say to ease her sudden sadness. Then out of nowhere a pale hand snaked over the tablecloth and covered Melinda's. "That must be so hard for you to talk about," Mustang said gently. "Why don't you two change the subject?"

"Why don't  _you_  stay at your own table?" Havoc shot back in fury. "Aren't you saving that other chair for your own date?"

"I'm afraid my date cancelled at the last minute," Mustang replied candidly. "My reservation was paid for and I didn't want it to go to waste."

"Sorry to hear that," Havoc sniffed.

"Although," Mustang added, casting Melinda a significant look as he squeezed her hand. "If I'd known such an enchanting beauty would walk in, I'm afraid I wouldn't have been able to pay my previous date the attention she deserved."

Melinda flushed deeply, visibly wilting under his gaze. She sent a pleading look in Havoc's direction. "Jean...couldn't we at least keep him company? He's all alone over there."

Havoc's mouth dropped open. He snapped his attention around to Mustang, and the man actually had the gall to smirk at him before adopting an expression that was appropriately wretched and wistful. "Now, Melinda," he said, every bit the noble martyr. "I wouldn't want to impose..."

"But it's no trouble at all!" Melinda said eagerly. "Right, Jean?"

Havoc fumed silently, fists clenched under the table. No matter how he looked at it, there was no way to stop this turn of events without looking like a complete ass. Just how the  _hell_ had Mustang managed to set that up? He ought to clock this guy right in the nose!

_Oh, and have a lieutenant colonel call you out in front of the entire restaurant and your date? He's HOW many ranks above you? He's got you over a barrel as is!_

"Jean? We can join him, right?"

_Never hit a superior officer, never hit a superior officer..._

"Sure," Havoc croaked. "Why not?"

Melinda smiled brightly as the two of them moved to the other table. The rest of the date went smoothly enough, if Havoc ignored the fact that Mustang was making all the conversation and that Melinda had fallen head-over-heels for the infuriating man. To top it off, Mustang simply  _insisted_ that he be the one to pay the bill, since Havoc clearly could  _not_  afford to eat in a place like this. He earned a tiny victory when Melinda left with him instead of Mustang, but he wasn't counting on getting a phone call from her anytime soon. He hadn't missed it when the other man slipped a piece of paper into Melinda's palm.

Havoc dropped Melinda off at her home without a hitch and walked back to his apartment with his shoulders slumped in defeat. And he sincerely hoped he never came in contact with Roy Mustang again.  _Ever_.

* * *

As predicted, he didn't hear from Melinda the next day. Or the next. Or the next. Havoc tried not to let it bother him, but it was _hard_ , damn it. And it wasn't even the loss of Melinda's company that was bothering him the most. Whenever Havoc remembered that night and the smooth, self-assured,  _smirking_  bastard that ruined it, it was all he could do not to punch something. Even his comrades noticed the raincloud hovering over his head and made a silent pact to avoid him until his foul mood abated.

The best Havoc could do was to take his frustration out on the targets at the shooting range.

_BANG! BANG!_

And if he happened to picture Mustang's face painted on his target…well, that was just good, healthy anger management.

_BANGBANGBANGBANG!_

"Sheesh, Havoc! What'd that poor target ever do to you?"

Havoc glanced over to see Lieutenant Breda setting up in the spot next to his, sidearm unholstered and earplugs already in place. He shrugged feebly in response to his friend's playful inquiry and took aim again. Right between those slanted black eyes...

"So how'd your date go the other night?"

_BANGBANGBANGBANG!_

"That bad, huh?" Breda said sympathetically. "Wait, don't tell me. Someone else has caught her eye, right?"

Havoc grimaced. "That obvious?"

Breda took a few shots of his own, tongue stuck out a bit in thought. "Well, you haven't been acting the way you usually do when you get dumped. Normally, you get all depressed and...gooey."

"Gooey?"

Breda gave a fairly decent impression of someone slumped over a desk with a hangdog expression. "Like a kicked puppy," he said blithely. "Just waiting for the next bosomy woman to come along and snuggle you."

"Thanks, Breda," Havoc said acerbically. "That means  _so_ much to me."

"I'm saying that  _now_ you don't look like that," Breda pointed out with a quick grin. "Right now, you've got that  _other_  look in your eye. The one every guy gets when someone hits on his girl. It's like instinct or something. So what happened? Did an old boyfriend show up? Or did you leave her alone two minutes too long and some other guy lured her away?"

Havoc gave a half-hearted shrug, mildly embarrassed. "Kind of the second one," he muttered. "It's not a big deal, it's not like she was my girlfriend or anything..."

_BANG! BANGBANG!_

"For that night, she was yours," Breda said when the echoes died away. "You've got to quit being so fatalistic about this stuff! Why didn't you do something to stop it?"

Havoc shoved another clip into his gun angrily. "It's not as clean-cut as it sounds! I'd like to see  _you_  try and keep a girl with that smooth-talker around!"

"Just who are we talking about anyway?" Breda asked in alarm.

"A lieutenant colonel. Called himself the Flame Alchemist."

A huge guffaw made Havoc look over in consternation as Breda braced his hands on his knees and howled at the ground like a hyena. "Oh man!" he wheezed. "You fell straight into that one! Roy Mustang's  _infamous_  for his popularity with the ladies. You stood no chance, my friend. No chance in  _hell_."

Havoc scowled, personally not seeing what was so funny about the whole thing. When Breda continued to laugh at his expense, he switched his attention to his target across the range. The vaguely humanoid shape was starting to sag a bit, unable to stand straight after being so thoroughly pummeled with bits of lead. Not bad. Now if only it was Mustang's bleeding corpse instead of a cardboard cutout...

He sighed and holstered his sidearm, suddenly craving a different kind of smoke than the hazy residue from the guns could offer. Breda did the same when he noticed Havoc patting his pockets, still sniggering as they left the range together and walked side by side back to the small base.

"Please tell me I'm not Mustang's only victim," Havoc implored as he lit up and took a long, soothing drag. "It might salvage whatever's left of my ego."

"If it were anyone else," Breda cautioned, "I'd say go kick his ass and get the girl back, but he's called the Flame for a reason. Best not to crisp your outsides as well as your insides, huh?"

"Meh," Havoc mumbled.

"Look on the bright side," Breda said in encouragement. "He's only here for another month or two. I heard their moving him up to East City HQ because of his valor in Ishval."

"A month or two without a date?" Havoc whined. "That'll kill me faster than the cigs!"

Breda gave him a clap on the shoulder and they parted, and Havoc turned the words over in his mind as he made his way to his guard station, a stone tower on the base's perimeter. Valor in Ishval, huh? Not that it meant much. Half the State Alchemists in the country had earned that same honor when they were called to end the uprising nearly a year ago. Only good timing and a mix up of paperwork had prevented Havoc from being yanked out of training to participate, and in that he counted himself lucky. The horror stories were enough to keep him awake at night, and plenty of antipathy still lingered among the citizens. It seemed more and more soldiers went missing every day, victims of violent crimes or dead by their own hand, and that was enough to make everyone double check their guns and circles before they went out at night.

Hell, in the wake of this war, he was lucky to be getting dates at all. Even the failed ones should be cherished, Havoc thought glumly.

At his guard station, a corporal rushed up to him and gave a hasty salute. "Sir, there's a civilian on the phone asking for you."

Havoc flung the cigarette aside and hurried inside to the phone, thinking it must be an emergency call from his family in the next town over. Who else would call him on a military line?

" _Melinda?_ " Havoc spluttered. "Wha—how—?"

"Jean, I'm so happy I got in touch with you!"

"Y-Yeah, it's good to hear from you too," Havoc faltered. "But how'd you get this number?"

"I asked Roy," Melinda chimed. "He was so nice about it too! I can't imagine how a man like that is still single."

Havoc nearly dropped the phone. Now  _that_ was just weird. He just couldn't see Mustang as the type of guy who would go out of his way to do that. But in the next instant he forgot about it. Who  _cared_ how she got the number? He had never expected to hear from this woman again, and here he was talking to her! Take that, Mustang!

"I'd really like to see you, Jean," Melinda blurted out. Then she gasped and quickly retracted. "Oh no, that sounded so needy..."

"No, not at all!" Havoc said hastily, falling in love with that voice all over again. "I'd like to see you, too. Have to admit, I was worried about that Mustang guy butting in the other night..."

"Oh, him," Melinda laughed. "Roy is a very pleasant man, but...but I don't just want to let you go, Jean. I been thinking about you ever since that night, and I think this could go somewhere if we give it a try. Please...say you'll see me again?"

Well, how about that! Havoc allowed a smirk of his own to curl his lips and cleared his throat. "Of course I will. In fact, are you free tonight?"

"I get off work at six. Maybe you could come pick me up?"

Havoc dug around in his pockets and fished up a piece of paper to scribble down an address with a victorious flourish. They exchanged a few more pleasantries and flirtations before they hung up, and Havoc was left in no doubt that Melinda really  _did_ want to see him. Sure, it was always a possibility that she was still seeing Mustang, but that was a minor inconvenience. Or maybe Mustang had been a jerk to her on a second date and she was seeking him out for a shoulder to cry on.

Either way, Havoc thought as he turned the paper over in his hand, this date would definitely go better than the first. He would make sure of it!

The corporal peered over Havoc's shoulder. "Sir...you  _do_  know that you're night shift is tonight, right?"

"Son of a  _bitch!_ "

* * *

"You're my hero, Breda!" Havoc said fervently as he yanked on a coat over his uniform. "I'll pay you back, I promise!"

Breda rolled his eyes and waved him off. "Damn right, you will. You know how much I hate the night shift. Just don't get lost and keep an eye out for the Flame!"

Havoc flew out of headquarters and jogged down the darkening street, keeping Melinda's directions handy. He knew the layout of the town quite well after a year, but he'd never been to the veterinary clinic where she worked. Luckily, he found his way with little trouble and soon enough he was standing outside a quaint little building in one of the more rundown neighborhoods. Only one light shone from within, spilling over onto the sidewalk where one of the streetlamps had been smashed.

He peered into a window and, seeing nothing, tried the door. But the clinic was locked up tight. Havoc stepped back, uncertain. He had expected Melinda to be waiting for him outside, but now that he was here he wasn't sure he liked the idea of an unaccompanied young woman standing on this street alone. Could something have happened to her while she was waiting? Havoc checked the buttons on his coat to make sure his uniform was still hidden and slipped into an alley to search for a back entrance.

Two steps into the alley, he heard shuffling footsteps up ahead. Up ahead was the faint silhouette of a person hunched over near a dumpster. The stance was too tense and alert to be a homeless person, too bulky and muscular to be Melinda. Trusting his instincts, Havoc drew his gun and clicked the safety off. The tiny sound ripped through the silence like a firecracker, and the figure spun around. A snap just as loud echoed back to Havoc and out of nowhere a column of fire roared into life, scorching the brick walls and blinding him in its intensity.

"Fucking  _hell!_ " Havoc yelped. He shielded his face and dove around the corner for cover, blinking spots from his eyes.

"Don't move or you'll burn where you stand!"

Havoc froze at the familiar voice and groaned. "Well, guess that's why they call you the 'Flame' Alchemist..."

"Who are you?" Mustang demanded from the shadows.

"It's me!" Havoc said indignantly, coming out of hiding with his lowered gun in plain sight. "We spoke the other night while you were hitting on my date!"

"Oh, you..."

Mustang emerged from the alley to stand in the dubious light from the clinic window. Havoc scanned him for arrays and spotted one stitched to the back of a white glove on his hand. "Ignition-cloth?" he snorted. " _Really?_  You know those will be completely useless if you get them wet, right? Why don't you just use a lighter?"

Mustang pulled a face. "What are you kidding? People would take one look at it and assume I'm addicted to those cancer sticks."

" _Why_  do people keep saying that?" Havoc said wearily. "There's no proof at all to back that up! And why are you even here? Don't expect me to believe Melinda invited us both to pick her up!"

"Her name's not Melinda," Mustang said bluntly.

"Huh?"

Without another word, Mustang turned on his heel and beckoned him into the alley. Havoc followed only reluctantly, unsure of what to expect. Now that he thought about it, Mustang seemed rather edgy and somber, the exact opposite from his demeanor the night before. His swift reaction earlier was enough to make Havoc keep his gun in his hands as he followed a step behind the alchemist.

Mustang peeled off his white glove and stuffed it in his pocket before reaching inside the dumpster he had been inspecting, an act that made Havoc cringe in revulsion. But then his eyes went wide as Mustang brought a piece of blue fabric into view, charred around the edges and bearing the remains of rank stripes. Havoc coughed when he caught a strong whiff of formaldehyde.

"What's this about?" Havoc asked. "Why's that here?"

"You know that soldiers have been going missing, right?" Mustang said bleakly, waving at the dumpster. "I think I've found their bodies. Or what's left of them."

Havoc stepped closer and held his breath as he peeked into the dumpster. It looked normal for the most part, as far as dumpsters went. Until he saw more bits of blue cloth scattered over the rest of the garbage. Near those was a bag that had fallen open to reveal a pile of dark ashes, the remains of something large that had been burned down to nothing.

"The uniforms are evidence enough," Mustang told him. "But I'm sure we can find a way to prove those are human remains. I need you to head back to HQ and report what we've found here..."

The hairs on the back of Havoc's neck rose, and he took half a step away from Mustang. "How did you know to find this here?"

Something in his tone must have given his thoughts away because Mustang's eyes narrowed as he turned to Havoc quickly. At the same time, Havoc brought his gun up and pressed it to Mustang's temple.

"What do you think you're doing, soldier?" Mustang asked quietly, staring at him in disbelief.

"A dark alley," Havoc breathed, "a Flame Alchemist and a dumpster full of burnt corpses. Do you honestly expect me to believe a word you say right now? For all I know, I caught you in the act of dumping this mess!"

Mustang gritted his teeth, clearly livid. "Lower your weapon. That's an order, soldier!"

"Not gonna happen," Havoc said harshly, all the while fighting to keep his hands from shaking. He'd never fought an alchemist before, but he was well aware of what they could do. He had absolutely no desire to end his life as ashes in a dumpster.

"Use your head, Lieutenant! You're girlfriend's the one who did this, not me!"

"The hell she did! And  _keep your damn hands in sight!_ "

Mustang paused in the act of reaching for the glove in his pocket and held his hands out from his body, palms up. "Havoc, just  _listen_ to me. You're aiming your gun at the wrong person!"

"I'll be the judge of that," Havoc retorted and held out his hand. "Hand over the glove and come with me,  _Flame_. You can explain yourself just as well from inside a cell..."

" _Look out!_ "

Something sharp embedded itself in Havoc's shoulder, right in the deltoid. He whirled around and fired, but his shot went wide and his attacker dove around him to stab a second needle into Mustang's thigh. Fire blossomed outward from their struggling forms, and Melinda fell back with a shriek of agony. Havoc staggered into a wall as his gun fell from senseless fingers, clattering to the ground. In the next moment, the world tilted and he crumpled to the ground. Havoc stared at the gravel an inch from his nose as his vision darkened and wondered for the millionth time why he had such rotten luck with women.

* * *

"Lieutenant, wake up! Havoc!"

Mustang's voice shattered the oblivion of Havoc's mind and dragged him back to cold, harsh reality. His body still felt so heavy and numb, unwilling to respond to even the smallest commands, and his mind was just a disjointed as it struggled to recall the recent past. Corpses in the dumpster, turbulent flames, sharp needles, Melinda...

"Come on, get your ass moving!"

"Make me," Havoc grumbled, but he forced himself to flex his fingers and toes, coaxing some vestige of life back into his limbs.

"Quit screwing around," Mustang snapped. "You're girlfriend is trying to kill us in case you hadn't noticed!"

A careless giggle came from nearby, and Havoc's eyes flickered open. Oh, this did  _not_ look good. The space he was the size of a small closet, about three paces wide and four long—the perfect size for a dog kennel. Oh crap, it  _was_ a dog kennel. Three of the walls around him were concrete and the fourth was the wire mesh of an animal cage. Across the way, Mustang was locked in a similar cage.

Havoc slowly uncurled from his position sprawled on the floor and sat more or less upright, leaning heavily on the mesh. Someone walked between the kennels, and he looked up at the woman he had hoped to call his girlfriend in bitter disappointment. There were burns on her forearm and jaw from Mustang's attack, unfortunately not life-threatening, but she still beamed at them both like a delighted girl at her new pets.

"Did you hear that, Jean?" Melinda said in a teasing tone and with not a trace of the blush he had found so endearing. "He called me your girlfriend. I guess that means he's being the bigger man and stepping aside. Isn't that sweet?"

Havoc snorted and surreptitiously checked his belt, unsurprised that his gun was gone. He glanced in Mustang's direction, but the alchemist merely shook his head and nodded at the white cloth poking out of Melinda's pocket.

"I still can't believe my luck in ensnaring you both tonight," Melinda went on, hugging herself in triumph. "I thought it would only be you tonight and then tomorrow I would make a tearful call to Roy about how my dear sweet Jean hadn't shown up for our date. I was  _so_  looking forward to that."

"Why did you murder those soldiers?" Mustang barked. "What will you gain from this?"

Melinda rounded on him with a mad glint in her eye. "How about the satisfaction of putting down the military's dogs with my own hands?" she said harshly. "Yes, that's all you people are.  _Real_  men wouldn't have taken a child from his mother's clinic, put a gun in his hand and made him into a living target for the Ishvalans!"

A faint flash of light in his periphery made Havoc look around. At the end of the corridor was a doorway, and from beyond came a flickering orange light that played over the stark white walls. His gut clenched. Of course, as a veterinarian, Melinda would have access to one of those machines that cremated dead animals. A simple and effective way to disguise a murder.

"I can't speak for whoever recruited your son," Mustang said slowly. "But the military hadn't yet begun civilian drafting when the war ended. So it must have been your son's choice from the beginning to join the fight..."

"It  _wasn't!_ " Melinda shouted. "He belonged here! Not there _, here!_ He should have—!"

She stopped all at once, laughing giddily. "No, don't do that to me, soldier. Trying to make me regret my crimes? Well, the bigger crime is allowing rabid dogs to live when they could pass on this disease of violence to others. What I'm doing is  _right_."

"Oh, shut up and get our murders over with," Mustang muttered. "I'm sick of hearing all that filth come from such a beautiful mouth."

"For the love of God, will you quit flirting with her?" Havoc said petulantly. "She's not about to sleep with you, in case you hadn't noticed."

"I wouldn't necessarily say that," Melinda purred, brushing her fingers over the mesh. Mustang regarded her with nothing but disdain, and she soon stepped back with a haughty little huff. "Well, in any case, the fire should be nearly ready. I'll be back for you boys in a minute."

Havoc watched her march away into the next room and shut the door forlornly. What a crappy way to end the night. He leaned back against the mesh and patted his pockets until he found his lighter and cigarettes. Luckily, she hadn't thought to take those away. He lit up, deliberately taking as much time as possible. This could very well be his last smoke, after all.

"This is all your fault, you know," Havoc said conversationally, glancing over his shoulder. Mustang had taken up a position that mirrored his own, sitting cross-legged with his back to Havoc.

"How is it my fault?" Mustang grunted. "It was your actions that allowed her to get the jump on us."

"Can you really blame me for jumping to conclusions?"

The quiet  _ssshnick_ of a rank pin being undone. Havoc twisted his cigarette between his fingers, gazing at the tiny flame on the end like it held all the answers.

"No," Mustang said finally. "I really can't. But I suppose I could have at least tried to approach you about this earlier. I just wanted proof first."

"What made you suspect her in the first place?" Havoc asked, genuinely curious. Was it possible that Melinda's nature had been glaring him in the face the whole time and he'd missed it? Mustang's answer was slow in coming. In the silence, Havoc heard a pained hiss and the quiet scratch of a finger tracing over the concrete floor.

"I have a friend in Investigations who's constantly telling me that coincidences don't exist," Mustang explained. "The soldiers who went missing were all on their way to meet with their dates. A different name every time, but in most instances the women were veterinarians. From there, it was just a matter of finding a veterinarian in that age range and getting her to pick me as her next target. Why do you think I was at the restaurant the other night?"

Havoc sighed ruefully. "And here I thought you were being a jackass just for the hell of it. According to my buddy Breda, you're a woman magnet."

"Not always a good thing," Mustang pointed out. "Just look at where we are."

"Good point. You done with that transmutation circle or should I snuff out this cigarette?"

Mustang met his grin with a cocky look. "You've worked with alchemists before, haven't you?"

"Actually, no," Havoc answered. "You just strike me as the type who'll do whatever it takes to save his own ass."

Havoc flicked his cigarette through the wire mesh. It landed in the very center of the walkway between their cages. Mustang set the rank pin aside, the sharp portion of the metal still slick with blood, and pressed his palm to the bloody array on the floor.

"Wrong," Mustang shot back. "This is to save both of us."

The door at the end of the corridor opened, and Mustang activated the array. A fireball exploded upward from the cigarette and engulfed the veterinarian in a whirlwind of flames before she even had time to scream. Within seconds, she was a smoking heap on the floor in too much agony to even move, let alone cause them any harm.

Mustang heaved a sigh of relief. "Ok, just one more array and we're out of here..."

A shrill whistle cut him off and the sprinklers in the ceiling spewed to life, drenching everything in sight. The array blurred in the icy water and washed out in seconds. Roy stared up at the ceiling in open-mouthed astonishment.

" _Now_  do you see what I meant?" Havoc bellowed over the fire alarm. "What good is your alchemy if you're useless in the rain?"

"Will you shut  _up_  about that?" Mustang roared, shivering as his uniform was soaked through. "And who exactly is the useless one? Without my alchemy, you'd be ashes in an urn right about now!"

"You could have just gotten us out of the kennels in the first place, but  _nooo_ , you had to go and make a damn fireworks display out it! Are you always this showy, you womanizing—!"

"Why don't you get over here and  _say that to my face,_  you insubordinate—!"

" _I'll TELL you what I'm gonna do when I get out of here, you wet match!_ "

" _Gimme those cancer sticks! I'm gonna burn your eyebrows off!_ "

* * *

The next day found Havoc safely back at his post, scanning a newspaper article bleakly. The reporters had managed to get most of the details right about Melinda a.k.a. Marissa a.k.a. Miranda Sundry and her role in the deaths of the missing soldiers. Somehow, Havoc couldn't muster up much in the way of shock over the one-eighty switch in the veterinarian's personality. It really wasn't that unusual for those who felt they had been wronged by the State to target random soldiers in pursuit of revenge. But  _why_  were they making Mustang out to be the hero who saved  _him_  from a gruesome death? They didn't seem to comprehend that the Flame Alchemist would have become the Cremated Alchemist without Havoc's cancer sticks to save him.

"Done with that?" Breda asked. "I haven't gotten a chance to read it yet."

Havoc folded the paper and tossed it to him. "Knock yourself out. I think I'm only mentioned maybe...twice."

"Psh, I'm more interested in reading about your girlfriend," Breda replied. "I still can't believe she turned out to be the one killing all those soldiers lately. What's it like to date a psycho?"

"Not much different than dating normal women," Havoc quipped. "The breakups are a bit bloodier."

"Ah...good to know. Hey, where are you going?"

"To see Mustang," Havoc said glumly, pausing at the door. "Don't know what about, he just said he wants to have a one-on-one with me about something."

"Oh yeah, about Mustang," Breda snickered from behind the paper. "I heard from the firemen that you two had quite the bonding experience."

"There was yelling, swearing, and name-calling," Havoc said, ticking each one off on his fingers. "I almost shot him, he almost torched me, and by the time we got rescued we were two seconds away from beating the living crap out of each other. Oh, and did I mention he stole my girlfriend?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Breda said with a completely straight face.

Havoc rolled his eyes and headed further into the base where the higher-ups kept their offices. Mustang didn't have his own private office, instead sharing one with others of his rank, but the other desks were empty when Havoc walked in. The phrase 'no witnesses' popped into his head ominously, but he shook it off as paranoia and saluted briskly. Mustang was leaning against one of the desks with his arms crossed—no longer dripping wet and red in the face, he was every inch the lieutenant colonel. The only sign of the recent trauma were faint shadows beneath his eyes and a bit of gauze taped to his palm where he had drawn blood to paint the array.

Havoc stood ramrod straight as he waited for the other man to say something. Away from psychotic girlfriends and life-or-death situations, they were still superior and subordinate. Mustang could choose to court martial him for his actions that night. Havoc squared his shoulders and braced himself for the inevitable lecture on always following orders and never, _ever_ questioning a superior officer. Even if said superior was an ass.

"I'm going to be transferred to East City three weeks from now," Mustang said evenly. "You're coming with me."

Havoc's mouth dropped open and stayed that way while his brain tried to catch up with his ears. "I...uh...can I ask why, sir?"

Mustang looked him over carefully and nodded, more to himself than to Havoc. "I've been given permission to assemble and command my own team once in East City, and I want you to be a part of it. You'll be the second I've chosen so far, the first being my second-in-command who served with me in Ishval."

There was a long silence. Mustang seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction. But the truth was that Havoc didn't quite know  _how_ to react as the news finally soaked in. A transfer...to East City...working for Mustang...

"You're going to make my life a living hell, aren't you?" Havoc said desolately.

Mustang's lips quirked at the gloomy statement, and he turned to look out the window, watching the soldiers roam around the base outside. "If you're expecting punishment for almost blowing my head off, you don't have to worry. Maybe another officer would have been angry that you didn't lower your gun when ordered, but not me. You made an assumption based on what you knew at the time and acted on it without hesitation. It's what I would have done."

"Yeah, I guess," Havoc said slowly.

Mustang faced him again with his hands braced on the desk, looking Havoc squarely in the eye. "I'm going to be frank with you, Havoc. I've got my own goals that I'm working towards. In that respect, I'm not that different from my peers. But the last thing I need are people under me who will follow any order without a thought or a care. If I wanted that, I'd train a pack of dogs for the job."

An amused smile played across Mustang's features. "What I need are soldiers who can call me a wet match to my face without fearing the consequences. Think you can handle that?"

Havoc mulled that over. Obviously, he didn't have a choice in the matter, but for some reason it didn't bother him that much. A scant few days ago, Havoc had loathed this man, but it had been a petty feeling based on nothing truly substantial. And now...

What  _did_  he think of Mustang now?

Remembering the day they met at the restaurant, Havoc couldn't help but be impressed and a little awed. Mustang could have easily turned his suspicions about Melinda over to the military police and let them deal with it. Instead, he had put himself on the front line by searching for evidence with his own eyes. How many officers would do that for soldiers they didn't even know?

Maybe this wouldn't be as bad as he thought.

Havoc saluted smartly. "Yes, sir. I believe I can."

"Good. You're dismissed now."

Havoc was halfway to the door when something else occurred to him and he looked back hopefully. "Sir, does this mean you won't steal my girlfriends anymore?"

Mustang's answer came in the form of a slow, devious smirk. Havoc's heart dropped like a stone.

"I'll let myself out..."


	2. Master Sergeant Kain Fuery

The office door swung open directly after his timid knock, leaving an already jumpy Fuery even more flustered when he found himself face to face with a very severe woman. He took in the ranking pins, the blond hair clipped up in a no-nonsense fashion, the large brown eyes with a very slight reddish tint...and gulped. So  _this_ was Riza Hawkeye, the one everyone referred to as the "Hawk's Eye". Though some of the men tended to favor the term "Ice Queen", which Fuery thought rather base and derogatory. But he couldn't deny there was a certain steeliness to her eyes that made you feel like a mouse under a bird's eye...

Hawkeye frowned. "Sergeant," she said coolly.

And then Fuery realized in horror that he had neglected to salute. He shifted the carton of equipment under his arm and managed an awkward half-salute before the heavy box slipped from his grasp. Hawkeye acted fast to catch the drooping end, and Fuery scrambled to reclaim it. "Sorry, sorry! If I could just have a place to set this down?"

"Over here, Sergeant," Hawkeye said, helping him maneuver his burden onto the nearest desk. "I assume there's a reason for this?"

"Ah, well...yes," Fuery said quickly. He straightened his uniform and made a second, much more dignified salute. "You see, with all the rainstorms we've been having lately some of the electrical grids have been acting up..."

Understanding dawned in the lieutenant's expression. "Oh yes, of course. I'd heard some of the offices near ours had been having problems. But we've been doing just fine, not so much as a blip on the phone line."

"Well," Fuery said when she tried to show him out. "They—that is, the higher-ups—thought it prudent that  _all_  the equipment be checked and replaced as needed."

"For all of headquarters?" Hawkeye said doubtfully.

Fuery laughed a little, still nervous. "That's what they told us!"

She gave him another piercing look and, to his relief, nodded. "Alright, then. Carry on."

"Thank you, sir. I-I mean ma'am!"

"Just 'Lieutenant' will do."

Fuery hurriedly fished out some tools when Hawkeye returned to her desk and began working again. He could sense her speculative gaze on him as he first inspected the fuse box, then one by one checked the phones on each of the desks. It felt an awful lot like treading on a lioness' territory, and especially so when he took his equipment and entered the inner office where Lieutenant Colonel Mustang worked.

It was enough to make him wish his intentions were as honorable as he had claimed.

Fuery picked up the receiver on Mustang's desk and listened for a moment before replacing it. "It's a little staticky," he announced. "Just going to check the wires..."

He didn't wait for permission before taking a seat and unscrewing the back panel off the phone. From under his cuff, Fuery withdrew a tiny bugging device and deftly clipped it to the proper parts. The device was easily hidden among the tangles of wires, and he shut the phone with shaking hands.

 _It's just orders, it's just orders, nothing evil about following orders. After all, there must_   _be a reason for them...right?_

"Well, Sergeant?"

Fuery jumped when he realized Hawkeye had appeared in the doorway and accidentally knocked the phone off the desk. He gave a dismayed cry when it hit the floor and split open, scattering delicate parts all over the carpet. Fuery scrambled to gather it all up and keep the bug hidden at the same time. "I'm sorry, I'm  _so_  sorry, Lieutenant! You just startled me, and—"

"It's fine, it's fine," Hawkeye said in exasperation, helping him gather a few wires. "Just get a replacement as soon as you possible, will you? Before the lieutenant colonel uses this as a reason to slack off."

"I will, absolutely," Fuery promised, dumping the broken phone into the carton and gathering the whole lot up in his arms. He avoided looking anywhere near Hawkeye on the way out the door and put as much distance between himself and Mustang's office as possible before he dared to return to a more sedate pace, taking the time to examine the broken phone. The damage wasn't as bad as he had originally thought. And actually, it worked out better this way. If Hawkeye had gotten suspicious of the way he acted back there then she could have checked the phone as soon as he left and discovered the bug. And if  _that_ had happened...

Fuery shuddered. It didn't even bear  _thinking_  about.

A flash of light in the corner of his eye made him pause, and Fuery stopped a moment to look out the window. This hallway had a good view of the parade grounds far below where a group of State Alchemists were practicing their art. The current center of attention was Major Armstrong, currently making the concrete writhe and morph into countless statues in the blink of an eye. Further on, a storm of flame bloomed upward gracefully before descending on target after wooden target. Dozens of puddles left over from last night's cloudburst captured and reflected the flashes of blue and white and orange and gold like a thousand tiny mirrors.

Fuery peered at the distant black-haired figure. He had no idea why his superior, Colonel Davis, wanted Mustang's phone bugged and his every move tracked. If he didn't know better, he would say it was nothing more than a personal vendetta. But what had Mustang ever done to him?

Well, perhaps it was not something he had  _done_ , per se. Many people had been very outspoken about someone as fresh as Mustang being transferred to East City so early in his military career, gliding through the ranks and spreading his influence everywhere he went. Most of those complaints quieted after some time passed and it became clear that Mustang was here to stay, but Davis seemed to be one of the few that stubbornly clung to a deep-seated resentment.

Except that a simple grudge wouldn't warrant this kind of scrutiny. There  _had_ to be a valid reason for Fuery's orders, but whenever he dared to ask, the only answer he received was  _it's not your concern, Sergeant_. He heard that an awful lot. Not his concern, not his concern...

Well, when  _would_ it be his concern? How many ranks did he need to advance before his superiors would  _trust_ him with all the myriad details?

Fuery sighed a little. He had known from the beginning what he was getting into when he chose communications as his area of expertise, had known he wasn't likely to get much recognition for his behind-the-scenes work. The military prized its alchemists above all, and after that were the commissioned officers and anyone with advanced weapons skills. None of which described him.

But even an invisible pawn could dream...

" _Fuery!_ "

"Sir!" Fuery yelped and nearly dropped his equipment for the second time in order to snap out a salute. Davis, looked down his nose at the much smaller man, and Fuery clutched his equipment protectively when Davis made a grab for the receiver sticking out of the carton. "Oh um, that's just..."

"Just  _what?_  Mind telling me why you're hustling around with a broken phone when you have  _other things_ you should be working on?"

Fuery glanced up and down the hallway in apprehension, but there didn't seem to be anyone in earshot. "It's, ah...Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's phone..."

" _Excuse_ me?" Davis barked. He lowered his voice and stepped closer, but his words were no less harsh. "Why the hell are you carrying around the phone you're  _supposed_  to be bugging? Are you that obsessed with electronics?"

"Sir, it was an accident!" Fuery protested. "I...I can still get the job done, it's just going to take a little more time."

"My God, can't you do  _anything_ right?" Davis demanded, throwing his hands up. "Fine! Just make sure you get it done by the weekend. And don't under  _any_ circumstances let anyone get wind of this."

"Sir, can I ask—"

"No, you can _not_. Just obey your orders, Sergeant."

Lacking any arguments to that, Fuery ducked his head and settled for a subdued, "...sir."

Davis watched him with eyes narrowed, but soon enough his attention was also drawn to the window. He sneered at the distant firestorm, lip curled in distaste. "Little upstart likes to show off, doesn't he?"

The colonel didn't wait for an answer before he strode off, and a disheartened Fuery shuffled down a staircase in the direction of his own office reluctantly. Well, he supposed he couldn't really call it  _his_. The large basement room was packed with rows of desks where the rest of his fellow "wire wizards" squandered their days wading through grunt work foisted on them by their superiors. Pencils scratching paper and fingers tapping typewriters were the only sounds that greeted him when he opened the door. Even here, Fuery had few friends.

It could be because he was actually a Master Sergeant and  _technically_  in charge of at least a third of them. Not that they acted like it half the time. Unless there was a war, the only real perks his rank got him was the dubious honor of being under the direct command of a commissioned officer. Not many officers bothered to handpick a communications expert. Much easier to just make a call down to Fuery and demand that one of the others be sent up to fix a broken radio or change a lightbulb or whatever else they needed. They didn't care _which_  technician they got just as long as the job got done quickly and quietly.

And the strangest thing was that no one seemed bothered by it. Maybe Fuery's peers were content to slack the day away and remain isolated in their little world, but didn't they ever long to be part of something meaningful? To use their expertise in a way that would make the world better? Even if their contribution was just a little piece, just one in the all...wouldn't that still be worth something?

Or maybe Fuery was thinking too much.

He made his way to the desk in the back corner and sorted through the ocean of parts without his usual enthusiasm, listening idly to a hushed conversation between three other sergeants.

"...no way, you're lying!"

"I've never been more serious in my life. I managed to have a whole conversation with her!"

"You sure it was  _the_  Lieutenant Hawkeye? The Ice Queen herself?"

"Positive. We couldn't talk much, we were just passing in the hall..."

"I'll give you 50,000 cenz if you ask her out and live!"

"Are you  _insane?_  What if the rumors about her and Mustang are true? I'll be charcoal before the week is out!"

"Better you than us. If you're lucky, maybe Hawkeye will find it in her heart to shoot you down first—literally, of course."

"You  _guys..._ "

"She's really not  _that_  bad," Fuery muttered under his breath.

"You say something, Kain?"

Fuery shook his head. "Nothing."

* * *

The phone was repaired, bugged and set in place within two days, a feat Fuery managed to take some pride in. Unfortunately, his reward for busting out such a quick repair turned out to be the duty of listening in on all of Mustang's conversations. Davis was utterly adamant that Fuery report as much as he could about Mustang's schedule and habits and anything else of relevance. What started as an extraneous duty ended up becoming a project so time-consuming that Fuery had to wire the bugging device to the phone at his desk so he could listen in while he scrambled to get his paperwork done.

And he  _still_  didn't know why this was so important! He felt very odd about the whole affair and wished he at least had an idea of what he was getting into. Day by day, he clung desperately to his mantra of,  _There has to be a reason, there has to be a reason..._

But if anyone asked Fuery— _which they didn't!_ —he would say Mustang was no more special than any other soldier. He did his work impeccably, though that didn't stop the occasional gripe about how much there was. His subordinates, from what little Fuery could glean, had few complaints about him and all the calls to and from his desk tended to be work related and utterly harmless.

Most of them, anyway.

" _Roy, I'm telling you, married life is the BEST! Greatest invention ever conceived by man, and that's including those wacky circles you play with on a daily basis._ "

" _Hughes..._ "

" _I know, I know! Raunchy bachelor that you are, you have serious doubts about my claims of ultimate happiness and suspect my zealotry is merely self-deception and wishful thinking, right? Well, I've got two words for you, Roy. Regular. Sex._ "

" _Hughes..._ "

" _Really, if you would just find yourself a wife, you'd be MUCH happier. Have you considered putting an ad in the paper? I'm sure you'd get women in wedding dresses throwing themselves at your feet—_ "

" _Hughes!_ "

" _WHAT?_ "

" _You do realize I have better things to do than listen to you rant about your sex life, right?_ "

 _And so do I_ , Fuery thought miserably, rubbing his eyes. He had understood full well when he started this that he might learn some personal things. He just hadn't realized quite  _how_ personal.

" _Psh, you're just in a bad mood because of the weather, right? I hear it's really bad out East._ "

Mustang muttered a foul curse. " _Damn rain'll kill me one of these days_..."

" _The weather's just GORGEOUS down south!_ " Hughes chirped, slipping back into his rant without warning. " _Did I tell you about our honeymoon in Aerugo? Our hotel was right on the ocean, and Gracia wore the most beautiful sundresses! In fact, there was this one she saw in the window of this shop—_ "

" _And the guy gave it to you half price once you promised to name your first kid Elysia! You've told me that story ten times already!_ "

" _Well, it's a good story! And we WILL name our daughter Elysia!_ "

" _What if your firstborn is a son?_ "

" _..._ "

Sergeant Bryant set a stack of paper on Fuery's desk, throwing the phone in his hand a curious look. "You haven't said a word for the past forty-five minutes, Fuery. Who the heck can talk for that long?"

"Uh...my mom," Fuery said shortly.

Bryant winced in commiseration. "Gotcha," he said and moved on. Fuery hunched a little lower in his seat. He was a very honest person, generally, and all of this sneaking around and lying to people was very stressful. The past few weeks had been spent darting nervously around headquarters and quickly turning the other way whenever he caught sight of Mustang, and he spent most of these eavesdropping sessions just  _waiting_ for flames of retribution to jump out of the phone and burn his ears off.

Though lately it seemed as if this Hughes guy would be a more likely recipient for that fire.

" _For God's sake, your honeymoon was three months ago! Shouldn't you be out of this gushy stage by now?_ "

Fuery set his phone back in its cradle. Hughes tended to take up hours of Mustang's time with meaningless jabber so there was no point in listening any longer. He sorted the forms on his desk into the folders they had arrived in and gathered the whole lot into his arms, planning to deliver them to Davis and report on the fruits—or lack thereof—of his labors.

But when Fuery finally traipsed upstairs and arrived at his superior's office, there was no response to his knock. He tried the handle, found it unlocked and nudged the door open. "Sir?"

The chair behind the desk was empty of its rather burly occupant, though bundles papers scattered all over the place and a half-empty mug told him that the room had only recently been occupied. Fuery wondered if Davis had gone out for some fresh air, but a quick glance at the window changed his mind. The clear skies last week had only been a brief respite and now the rain was back full force, drops hammering against the glass like a hail of bullets.

Fuery left the door open as he strode to the desk, eyeing the mess in distaste. It wasn't normally  _this_ bad, but today must have been a busy day. He didn't see how anything got done in such a disorderly environment. He elbowed the junk aside and set his folders down on a corner where Davis could find it, realizing too late that doing so would knock a bunch of other papers off the other side. Fuery circled the desk and crouched to collect them, hoping he hadn't jumbled them up too badly.

But then he paused when his sharp eyes found a small slip of notepaper mixed among the official military documents. It seemed so out of place that Fuery let his eyes linger a little longer, and he was surprised to see that it was written in some code. The only currently readable portion was the title.

_Operation Extinguisher_

He wasn't sure what illogical impulse made him do it, but after a quick glance at the door Fuery shoved that paper into his pocket, flatly ignoring the panicked voice in his head screaming at him to  _put it back, put it back before he finds out!_  A cipher spoke of secrecy and clandestine activities, and the chances of Davis being involved in more than one affair like that were very low. The message must have something to do with Mustang, and therefore could hold the answers Fuery desperately lacked.

So, Fuery repeated to his babbling inner conscience firmly, he was  _not_ going behind his superior's back for the sake of his own curiosity. This was for the good of the mission that Davis himself had given him. He would be forgiven for this. Hopefully. He got to his feet and made for the door, but something else stopped him. There was some kind of vile odor coming from the desk that was making his throat itch. It smelled a lot like cigarettes, but Fuery was reasonably sure Davis didn't smoke. He had a sensitive nose and would have noticed long before now. Fuery peeked around the desk, but the only thing he saw was the vacant chair.

Movement startled him and he shoved the chair away when he realized there was a  _person_  curled up underneath the desk. How the man had squeezed himself into that tiny space, Fuery couldn't even begin to guess, but there he was. Startling blue eyes adopted a deer-in-the-headlights look when he saw Fuery. "Um..."

"W-Who are you?" Fuery said in alarm. "What are you doing down there?"

The other soldier painstakingly wiggled out from his hiding place and straightened up, offering Fuery a winning grin. "Ah well, you see...okay, there's a  _really_ good explanation for this..."

"What were you doing under the  _desk?_ " Fuery demanded.

"Um...hiding?"

"From what?"

The man's indecision suddenly cleared up. "Hiding from my little niece!" he exclaimed. "I'm babysitting her today! She's probably running around looking for me right now."

"A niece?" Fuery said, bemused. "But...you brought a  _child_  to military headquarters?"

"I know, bad idea, right?" the soldier laughed. "In fact, I think I'd better go find little, ah... _Elysia_  and take her home."

Fuery choked on air. " _Elysia?_ "

"That's what I said!"

And he all but ran for it. Fuery peered out the door just in time to see the mysterious soldier vanished around the corner, baffled by his behavior.

"And just who was  _that?_ "

Fuery bit back an embarrassing squeak and spun around to salute Davis. He  _really_ wished his superior wouldn't do that. It was such a strain on his nerves. "Sir! I'm actually not sure who it was, sir. He was in the office when I got here."

"Well, what was his rank?" Davis said impatiently.

Fuery thought back quickly. "I believe he was a second lieutenant, sir."

"I see," Davis muttered, cursing under his breath. He beckoned Fuery into his office, shutting the door behind him. "I bet it was one of Mustang's dogs snooping around..."

"One of the lieutenant colonel's?" Fuery repeated in surprise. He touched his pocket where the coded message was hidden. Had that been what the second lieutenant was looking for? He couldn't think of any other reason for one of Mustang's men to be searching the office. This whole thing kept getting more convoluted by the minute!

Davis didn't bother to answer. He started rifling through the papers on his desk, and Fuery cringed when his own tidy pile skewed sideways. The colonel yanked open several drawers and searched them thoroughly before finally snapping his attention back to Fuery. "You didn't let him walk out with anything, did you? No papers or anything like that?"

Fuery blanched and snatched his hand away from his pocket. "N-No, of course not, sir."

"Are you telling me the truth, Sergeant?" Davis demanded, advancing around the desk until he was right in Fuery's face. "If I find out you're lying to me..."

"Sir, I'm not lying!" Fuery protested, feeling a rush of indignation despite the code burning a hole in his pocket. He had always prided himself on being a very trustworthy person, someone who could be counted on. And he found it truly remarkable that, after three years in Davis' command, his superior could still doubt him.

A knock at the door distracted them both, and Fuery looked back when Lieutenant Hawkeye burst in. She paused, looking from Fuery to Davis. "Am I interrupting something?"

"What is it, Lieutenant?" Davis snapped at her.

Hawkeye saluted, mouth straight. "Sir, I came to apologize for Second Lieutenant Havoc's trespass. I assure you there is a proper explanation."

Davis snorted. "Of course there is...and what explanation might that be?"

An aggrieved look flitted across her face. "Apparently, the second lieutenant was taking part in some silly bet to plant racy pictures in the desks of several higher-ranking officers. Several others were involved as well. I can assure you that this matter will be reported to my superior and that the second lieutenant will be rebuked."

A silent war waged between Davis' irate look and Hawkeye's stone-cold mask. Fuery held his breath, wondering who would win the battle of wills. He almost expected Davis to call her out, but he could hardly accuse Mustang of anything illicit when he was just as guilty, if not more.

At last, Davis huffed irritably and waved his hand. "Fine, you may go."

Hawkeye passed by Fuery on her way to the door and, much to his surprise, gave him a small, friendly smile. He just managed a weak grin of his own before she shut the door behind her, and he privately shook his head. Really, everyone acted like she had a heart of ice, but it seemed there was a kindhearted person under that stoic exterior. She had never been anything other than courteous to Fuery, and even her sharp eyes became very gentle when she smiled. Almost pretty, in a way...

"So that's the game Mustang wants to play," Davis muttered. "Do you know Lieutenant Hawkeye very well, Sergeant?"

"Oh no, sir," Fuery said quickly. "I mean, I've seen her around headquarters, but we've never really spoken."

Davis held up a hand to stop him. "It just might be in my best interest for you to  _get to know_  her."

"Get to know her?" Fuery asked, perplexed. "As in, as friends...?"

The broad smirk Davis turned on him held a bit of a lecherous quality, and Fuery flushed hotly at the implication. " _What?_  But I-I don't know if I'm comfortable with that, sir—"

The grin slipped into a scowl, and Davis drew himself up. "Fuery, who is your commanding officer?"

Fuery faltered and hung his head in defeat. "You are, sir."

"That's right," Davis said in a clipped tone. "That means when I give you an order, I expect that order to be obeyed without question or complaints. I don't give a damn how  _uncomfortable_ you are just as long as you do your job. Is that clear?"

Nothing about this was clear! But for now, Fuery held his tongue against bitter retorts and quelled the seditious feelings in his gut, thinking of the message in his pocket. That was the key to unraveling this whole affair. Once he knew why Davis and Mustang seemed to be at each other's throats, he would know what to do about it.

"Now Sergeant, report. How did today's session go?"

In the meantime, Fuery had his own duties to think of.

"Not very well," Fuery admitted. "I'm afraid the only call our... _target_  received was from Major Maes Hughes in Central."

Davis huffed, as irritated as Fuery with the major's frequent calls. "Did they discuss anything noteworthy?"

"The major did most of the talking," Fuery said dutifully. "Once again, he badgered the lieutenant colonel about marriage and proceeded to reiterate his recent honeymoon in detail.  _Extreme_ detail. Our target was less patient than usual during this, though the major blamed his intolerance on the weather..."

"The weather?"

Fuery shrugged and indicated the window. "I guess the lieutenant colonel doesn't like the rain very much."

Davis brushed past Fuery, staring out at the darkened sky. "The rain. Of  _course_ , he's the damned  _Flame_ Alchemist. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Sir?"

"Nothing," Davis said curtly, though the fleeting flash of teeth was more threatening than reassuring. "Carry on, Sergeant."

* * *

The cipher was proving most troublesome. Fuery had never been very good with puzzle games or word enigmas, but this was truly driving him insane. Give him something with wires, switches and knobs and he could break it down and find its purpose in half an hour.

Well, it was a week later and Fuery had hardly made any headway. He'd managed to work out that the message contained instructions for several people, possibly a group of them, but no indication of who they were or what they were being instructed on. It wasn't all that difficult to conclude that 'flame' meant Mustang, but what did Davis want the recipients of this message to know about the lieutenant colonel? More importantly, what would be gained? Was Davis trying to discredit Mustang in some way, to get him demoted or transferred?

Or...what if Davis actually wanted to hurt him? Fuery didn't want to think his superior could be capable of something like that. Davis may be a little nasty at times, and he could be rather brash and insensitive toward people in general, but  _surely_  he wouldn't go so far as to...?

"Excuse me, is this seat taken?"

"No, go ahead," Fuery mumbled without taking his eyes off the paper. The mess hall wasn't the best place to work on this, but today the light drizzles that had been plaguing East City had given way to something far more torrential, which in turn sent him here for lunch instead of his favorite bistro. They couldn't take the trays with them to their offices, and Fuery had known that if he left the coded message behind then he would only rush through his leftover lasagna so he could get back to it.

He raked his fingers through already tousled hair, venting his feelings in a whine of frustration. "It shouldn't be this  _hard..._ "

"What's that, Sergeant?"

The voice finally clicked in his mind and Fuery's head snapped up. He nearly bolted out of his chair at the sight of Hawkeye in the seat directly across from him. He snatched up the cipher and stuffed it in his pocket. "Nothing!" he blurted out. "Just...just a little project I'm working on, that's all, no big deal!"

Hawkeye tipped her head curiously. "I didn't say it was."

"Eh, right," Fuery muttered, watching her begin to eat out of the corner of his eye. Despite very explicit orders to "get to know" Hawkeye, he hadn't made a serious attempt at it. He had a feeling she was shrewd enough to recognize any attempt at fake friendship, and the fact that he actually _did_  want to get to know her in a wholly non-lecherous way made the whole thing more complicated. Fuery had so few friends. He got on well enough with his fellow technicians, but there was no one he was truly close to, no one he saw outside of headquarters or talked to just to  _talk_ to.

But considering he was helping to spy on her superior officer, befriending Hawkeye would be like treading on thin ice. One wrong step, one misplaced word or action, and this lowly sergeant could find himself in very deep waters.

"Hey, Fuery! What are you doing way over here? Oh, and who's  _this_ lady friend of…yours…?"

Fuery cringed at the petrified look Bryant turned on Hawkeye, as though she was a rabid bear that had wandered into headquarters. "Hey, Bryant," he said quickly. "You've met Lieutenant Hawkeye, haven't you?"

"Uh, no," Bryant said, staring at him in bewilderment. "But I didn't know  _you two_ knew each other..."

"Not really," Hawkeye said casually. "We only just met the other day, isn't that right Kain?"

Fuery nodded, taken aback by the use of his first name. He hadn't been aware she even knew his last name. "Hey Bryant, why don't you join us?"

"Ah," Bryant faltered with another wary look at Hawkeye. "No, that's okay. I'll just, um..."

He shuffled off without finishing what he was going to say and retreated to another table where the rest of Fuery's coworkers chatted among themselves. Bryant started whispering animatedly to them and suddenly they had the undivided attention of the entire group as every one of them gazed at Hawkeye in astonishment and Fuery in open-mouthed wonder. Fuery only just resisted the urge to duck under the table to escape their stares. Sure, Riza Hawkeye was a living legend, but was that any reason to treat her like she had two heads?

"Sorry about them," Fuery said in apology. "I guess they're just a little overwhelmed, what with you being so well-known and..."

"Intimidating?" Hawkeye suggested.

"You're  _not_ intimidating!" Fuery said vehemently, earning an arched eyebrow from the lieutenant. "I-I mean, it's not like it's _your_ fault. Those guys are just being..."

"Sissies?"

Fuery's mouth dropped open. Hawkeye's lips quirked up as though inviting him to share in some secret joke, and he felt an answering grin curl his lips. "I guess that's one way to put it," he chuckled.

"Listen, Sergeant," Hawkeye went on. "I'm glad I caught you here. I've been meaning to talk to you."

"You have?" Fuery said, hoping he didn't sound too eager.

"Yes, I've heard you're a very gifted technician..."

"Oh," Fuery said in disappointment. He was very familiar with  _those_ words, and they were always followed by a plea to fix something. "Yes, I guess I  _am_  fairly good at what I do."

"Only fairly good? That's not what I've heard. Even your peers think very highly of your skill."

"I suppose..."

"Let me ask you something," Hawkeye said slowly. "What do you think of your current commander? Colonel Davis?"

"T-Think?" Fuery stammered, fumbling as he tried to work out how to answer that. He couldn't exactly go off on his grievances against the man without revealing what he had been up to for the past few weeks, but he didn't want to just outright lie either. "I...guess I haven't got much to complain about."

"That sounds an awful lot like a platitude, Sergeant."

Fuery shrugged and picked at his food. "Well, what do you want me to say? Why are you asking me this?"

Hawkeye sipped her water, watching him over the rim in thought. "Oh, it's just that my superior is currently looking for a specialist in communications to serve in his command and I thought you might be interested..."

" _WHAT?_ "

His fork skidded off the plate and peas flew in every direction. The tables around them grew quiet after his shout, and Fuery slunk down in his seat with flustered apologies. Once they went back to their conversations, he leaned closer to Hawkeye. "What?"

Hawkeye plucked a pea out of her glass daintily and set it on her napkin. "It's as I said. Lieutenant Colonel Mustang was only recently granted the privilege of choosing his own command, and he is being rather...let's say  _selective_ about the process. I had hoped we would be further along now than we really are."

"I...see," Fuery said in awe. "And you really think he would want me?"

"That depends on what he thinks when he actually meets you," Hawkeye pointed out. "So what do you think?"

Fuery felt the blood drain from him at the very thought of meeting with Mustang. But...but putting that aside, what she was offering was still worth some consideration. What was Mustang like as a commander? Surely, he couldn't be any worse than Davis. He might even be  _better_. Could this be Fuery's chance to break free of the prickly, brusque colonel? It was such a staggering thought that he didn't know  _what_ to do about it at first.

Still, how would Davis react if he found out he wanted to transfer? On the other hand, Fuery thought bitterly, it was almost doubtful Davis would even notice he was gone. There was nothing Fuery did that couldn't be accomplished by anyone else. The only difference would be that Davis would have a much harder time roping him into any other projects on the side.

But...

"I think I'll have to turn you down," Fuery said, ignoring the dull, wistful ache in his chest. It might have been worth considering if only Mustang wasn't the one Davis was so bent on keeping under surveillance. There was simply no way Davis would be able to let that go, and Fuery had no desire to gain a reputation as a turncoat this early in his military career.

Hawkeye considered him with some surprise. "Are you sure? You've hardly even thought about it."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Fuery said with a feeling of profound regret.

Hawkeye sighed and lifted her glass to her lips again. "I'm sorry too, Kain."

Several tables over Bryant and the others started waving their arms frantically over Hawkeye's shoulder and mouthing warnings that Fuery didn't quite catch. Before he could puzzle out what had gotten them so worked up, heavy footsteps approached from behind and a deep voice spoke right over his head. "There you are, Lieutenant. Sorry to keep you waiting."

Fuery looked over his shoulder...and came face to face with a pair of white-gloved hands holding a tray of their own. Gloves with  _arrays_ stitched to the backs. Fuery met Mustang's gaze and tried very, very hard not to pass out when black eyes raked over him, almost like he was sizing him up.

"Lieutenant Colonel," Hawkeye replied composedly. "You have good timing. This is the sergeant I was telling you about, Kain Fuery."

"Oh?" Mustang said with a small bit of interest. "So you're the one who fixed my phone?"

"Only after I broke it," Fuery managed to squeak out ruefully. "I, ah...hope there haven't been any problems?"

"Not at all," Mustang said as he set his tray down. "Unfortunately," he added under his breath.

"Well, that's good then," Fuery mumbled.

Mustang cast him another cutting glance. "If you're quite finished there, Sergeant, I'd like a word with you outside. Watch my tray, will you Lieutenant?"

Fuery didn't have time for more than a blink of surprise before Mustang turned on his heels and marched for open doors of the mess, and he hurried to follow. His fellow techies simulated crash and burn sound effects as he scuttled by, which he did his best to ignore. He expected them to pause in the corridor outside the mess or seek out an empty office, but Mustang kept walking until they left the building altogether. Fuery shivered when they forsook the relative comfort of the command center for the very wet, very cold parade grounds. They stayed close to the building on a paved walkway that at least offered a sturdy roof to shelter them from the elements. The rain two steps away was deafening and the humidity so thick that it was difficult to see beyond ten feet. But even so, Fuery was positive no one else would possibly be outside in this downpour. In a way, this setting almost offered more privacy than anywhere else on the base.

"So what did you need to talk about, sir?" Fuery asked, on his guard.

Mustang leaned against the wall indifferently. He dug around in his pocket and tossed something small at Fuery, arms crossed as he observed his reaction. "Let's say I need some professional advice. Any idea what that is?"

Fuery cupped the mechanism in his hands and paled. In his hand was the bugging device he had planted in Mustang's phone. It seemed a little worse for the wear, which could be due to rough handling, but it was definitely the same one. He gulped and willed himself not to completely lose his head and just run for his life. Just because Mustang had found the bug and come to him didn't mean he knew Fuery put it there! He could just be seeking advice, like he said.

"Well, Sergeant?"

"It's...a bug," Fuery said, then hastened to explain. "I-I mean, it's a bugging device. For listening in on phone conversations."

"Really," Mustang deadpanned, as though that was exactly the answer he expected. "I found that yesterday morning attached to the wires inside  _my_  phone, Sergeant. The one that  _you_ fixed only a few weeks ago."

"...oh," Fuery said feebly. He hadn't even known it was  _possible_  to sweat with fear when one was chilled to the bone.

"Do you know anything about it?"

" _No!_ " Fuery exclaimed a little too quickly, backing up a pace at the blazing look Mustang was giving him. "I...the phone was sitting on my desk for quite some time, unguarded. It could have been anyone—!"

"But it wasn't just anyone," Mustang cut him off. "It was  _you_."

Before Fuery could even begin to think of a coherent response, Mustang seized the front of his jacket and shoved him hard against the building, planting one hand against the wall above his shoulder. Fuery remained pinned there while Mustang loomed over him, and his eyes shot to the gloved hand right by his face in pure terror. The crimson thread that made up the arrays winked at him lewdly in the bleak light as though bidding him farewell.

"What is Davis planning?"

Fuery started. "Davis?"

"I  _know_  he put you up to bugging my phone," Mustang ground out menacingly. "Normally, I don't give a damn about him or his archaic approach to leadership, but for the past month or so Davis has been oddly civil to me. Not a single snide comment, not a murmur of discontent. It's almost like he  _knows_ I won't be around for much longer. And now I find a bug in my phone, which is not something I can just ignore."

Mustang lifted his other hand to Fuery's ear, thumb and finger rubbing together so the rasp of ignition-cloth was perfectly audible and a shower of sparks singed his uniform. "So I repeat.  _What is he planning?_ "

Fuery drew in a shaky breath, trembling from head to toe. "I-I don't know what he's after. I really don't!"

"Why do I have such a hard time believing that?" Mustang murmured lazily, snapping. A lick of flame lashed Fuery's neck painfully and singed his hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, biting back an agonized whimper when Mustang pressed his thumb to the blistered skin mercilessly. "When you and Hawkeye spoke, I was positive you would jump at the chance to be Davis' mole. But maybe you're too smart to fall for that? Or have his plans progressed beyond the need of a flesh-and-blood spy?"

"I have no idea," Fuery gasped. He made himself look Mustang in the eye. "You have to believe me, I don't  _know_ anything! He wouldn't tell me why he wanted your phone bugged or why he wanted me to get to know Lieutenant Hawkeye or—!"

" _What_ was that?"

Fuery choked off his words when Mustang's expression became almost frenzied. His eyes darted to the curtain of rainwater pouring from the gutters, wondering for a fleeting moment if he should shove them both into the deluge where he might be relatively safer from acquiring serious burns.

"Don't even  _think_ of running," Mustang snarled. "What does that bastard want with my lieutenant?"

"I can't, I don't," Fuery stammered helplessly. "He wouldn't  _tell_  me. He just said he needed me to get close to her—"

"Get close to her  _how?_ "

Fuery hung his head, too ashamed of his orders to voice them aloud.

"...I see."

And to his utter amazement, Mustang released him. Fuery's hand shot to his neck, and he winced when lances of searing heat spread outward from the burn.

"So why haven't you?"

Fuery looked at Mustang in blank confusion. "Why haven't I what?"

"If Hawkeye is to be believed, she hasn't spoken to you since you fixed my phone," Mustang informed him. "Not once, not even to say hello, and you must have had plenty of opportunities."

"I'm not sure," Fuery admitted. "Except that...except that I don't see how she could have anything to do with whatever's going on between you and Davis. It just doesn't make sense to involve her. Lately,  _none_  of his orders have made sense! I just wish I knew what was going on!"

"That makes two of us," Mustang muttered.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant Colonel," Fuery said unhappily. "I really am. But it's not my place to question my commanding officer…"

"Has Davis been feeding you that tripe?" Mustang said quietly.

Fuery didn't say anything. Mustang turned away from him, hands on his hips as he stared out at the rain. "I don't trust Davis. That man has...connections. The kind that upstanding officers like himself have no business possessing. He's also far rasher than his colleagues, and if he sees the slightest opportunity to be rid of me, I know he won't hold back. I'd be fine with all this if it was only myself in the line of fire, but if he  _dares_  to try and involve my men..."

Fuery could only imagine how  _that_ statement would end. The burn on his neck could almost be considered tame when compared to what Mustang was truly capable of. "What are you going to do?"

Mustang began to walk away. "Not to sound like Davis, but I think it's best if you don't know."

"Wait, sir!"

Fuery took the cipher from his pocket, hesitating a moment before he held it out to Mustang. "It's all I know. I wanted to find out what was going on for myself, so I took this from Davis' office. I haven't figured out what it means, but...maybe it can help."

Mustang took it with some misgivings, scanning the code. "And why, exactly, are you giving this to me?"

"Because I don't trust Davis either," Fuery confessed. "This whole thing has given me a bad feeling from the start. I just don't want Lieuten—I don't want anyone to get hurt because of something I did."

Mustang didn't say anything at all for a moment. Fuery honestly wasn't expecting anything by way of thanks or even general acknowledgement. But before he left, Mustang clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a good man, Fuery."

And Fuery was left behind in the rain, utterly mystified and praying he hadn't made a huge mistake.

* * *

Weeks passed after that incident without a single move being made by either Davis or Mustang. Davis, for his part, seemed very preoccupied with something, which was a major boon for Fuery as it saved him from having to explain why he was no longer bringing regular updates on Mustang's phone conversations. Or perhaps Davis had already gotten whatever information he needed. Either way, Fuery kept a wary eye on the situation as he waited for matters to come to a head. More than once he was on the verge of reporting it to someone with the rank to deal with all this, but Fuery had no way of knowing which higher-ups would side with Davis and decide Mustang—and those he commanded—were more trouble than they were worth.

In that time, Fuery saw little of Lieutenant Hawkeye either. They passed each other in headquarters, but she also seemed troubled and never spared a moment for more than a distracted hello. A fact that was not lost on Fuery's coworkers.

"Just tell us already!"

"There's nothing to tell!" Fuery snapped. "Don't you guys have work to do?"

The technicians grouped around his desk, and in some cases sitting on it, shrugged in unison. Bryant leaned closer. "Really, nothing at all? Are you telling me that we were imagining it when we saw you putting the moves on the Ice Queen in the mess?"

"What you  _saw_ ," Fuery explained through gritted teeth, "was two acquaintances having lunch together. Nothing more! We're just friends!"

Someone snickered. "Sure, that's why Mustang hauled you away by the scruff of your neck..."

Fuery grimaced as everyone shared a round of chuckles at his expense. "He did  _not!_  He just wanted a quiet word about...technical issues with his phone."

"Then how'd you get that burn,  _huuuh?_ "

Fuery clasped his hand over the bandage self-consciously. "It's a sunburn."

"Not in this weather," Bryant insisted, jerking his thumb at the small window near the ceiling. "Come on, just give us the goods! Are the two of them really together? Is that why Mustang warned you off?"

"Or maybe Hawkeye just doesn't like short guys..."

" _Enough!_ " Fuery wailed. "Seriously, guys, just leave me alone!"

"We'll leave you alone once we have all the juicy details!"

Unable to take any more interrogation, Fuery snatched up his coat and fled with a host of catcalls on his heels. They had been at it nonstop ever since that lunch with Hawkeye, and it was driving him insane. And the worst part was there was no place in headquarters he could go to escape them.

He shrugged on his coat and checked his watch. It would be an early lunch, but that was far better than enduring a constant barrage of questions and snide comments. Fuery made his way upstairs and let himself outside, yanking his hood up against the rain. Puddles splashed beneath his boots as he jogged down the street, and his glasses were soon so speckled that he took them off and stuffed them in his pocket. The radio had claimed the storm system would pass them by soon, but right now it wasn't looking too promising. The clouds seemed endless, the rain equally so, and Fuery found himself reminiscing about all those sunny summer days that he hadn't fully appreciated until they were gone.

At the corner, Fuery paused before he crossed the street, waiting for the car behind him to pass. The driver gestured at him to go first and he crossed the street with a grateful wave of his hand. But the gratitude soon faded when the car also turned the corner and started… _following_  him. It could have been a fluke, but two blocks and a right turn later that same car was still on his trail, inching along. Fuery quickened his pace, peeking over his shoulder as a chill overtook him when he remembered that not everyone in the country supported the military. And if whoever it was truly meant him harm...

He cut into a narrow alley that the car couldn't possibly fit through and fled at a dead run. Tires screeched and he heard splashes as someone pursued him on foot. Several someones. Fuery's hood flew off as he sprinted and his hair was soon drenched and plastered to his skin. He squinted ahead, praying that was an intersection and not simply a dead end, but it was so hard to see anything without his glasses.

Fuery shoved his hand into his pocket, but in that instant someone seized the back of his hood and flung him to the ground. His glasses flew from his hand and went skipping out of reach. Fuery gasped when one of his pursuers kicked him against the wall and shielded his head when brutal punches rained down on him from all sides. Desperate cries for help were choked off by a blow to his ribs and every attempt to defend himself was blocked.

"Wait! Guys,  _hold up!_  This ain't him!"

The violence ended, and Fuery took advantage of the reprieve to get his glasses, staring at his attackers in astonishment. They looked...like thugs. Very annoyed thugs. There were eight of them total, all glaring down at him like  _he_ was at fault when the bruises under his uniform told a different tale. Fuery gulped, longing for the holstered gun that he had left behind in his desk drawer. "W-What do you want from me?"

"Nothing from  _you_ ," one of them sniffed. "Get the hell out of here and forget this happened. You're not who we're after."

"No. That would be me, wouldn't it?"

Fuery wasn't the only one who openly gaped at Mustang's sudden appearance in the alley with them. The lieutenant colonel flipped his hood back, hands casually stuffed into his pockets "It's annoying, isn't it?" he said offhandedly. "Black is a common hair color, and that's probably the only useful description Davis gave you to go on. He still hasn't realized that his incompetence in turn weakens those he commands."

One by one, the men surrounding Fuery moved away and advanced on Mustang with eager, bloodthirsty grins. Some of them even drew knives. Fuery pulled himself upright, bracing his back against the wall. "Lieutenant Colonel, what's going on?"

"It's really very simple," Mustang said with perfect composure even as he was slowly surrounded. "Davis paid these lowlifes to murder me. He instructed them to attack on a rainy day when my alchemy would be less effective and to wait for a time when I was sure to be by myself. Anyone who's been keeping regular tabs on me would know that, when I choose to eat lunch out of headquarters, I often go alone. It would be a simple matter to beat me to death and make it look like a random mugging."

He half-shrugged and gave Fuery an apologetic smile. "You really picked the wrong day to go out to lunch, Fuery. I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

One of the assailants scoffed. "You knew all this and came anyway? You are a fool."

Fuery felt himself growing paler by the second. He wanted to deny it all, driven by an automatic instinct to defend Davis, but he couldn't. Not with the truth staring him in the face. In fact, wasn't this exactly the type of thing he had feared would happen?

"And I helped him," Fuery breathed, horrified. "How could I...I didn't think it could be something like  _this_..."

"Leave, Sergeant."

"What? But—!"

Mustang settled into a defensive stance as the assassins closed in on him. "It's alright. These bastards only think they have the advantage."

"That's where you've got it wrong, Flame!" one of them laughed, flipping his blade and pointing it at Mustang. "You should really keep a better eye on that chick of yours."

Fuery drew in a sharp breath. "Lieutenant Hawkeye..."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Mustang said harshly, his easy confidence gone in an instant.

"You aren't the only one who's had their every move watched," the man said smugly. "We know she's never far from you, ready to save your pathetic ass at a moment's notice. Did you think we wouldn't be prepared to deal with her as well?"

"Well, not really us," another chuckled. "Davis seemed so eager to get a piece of the action..."

A single gunshot cut the words off and a body crumpled to the ground, bleeding. Fuery whirled around just as a very familiar second lieutenant came into view with his shotgun already reloaded and his lips twisted into a disgusted snarl. "Man, these guys really  _are_  scum."

"Havoc, go to Hawkeye!" Mustang said sharply. "Help her—!"

He didn't get any further before the assassins attacked. Havoc raced past Fuery to help and the alley exploded into violence. Fuery ducked aside to avoid two flailing bodies and scurried away from the skirmish, wanting to help but not even knowing where to start. His heart had seized up in his chest at thought of Hawkeye being in danger as well, paralyzed by terror and—even more shocking— _fury_ towards the man who had instigated all of this.

Havoc tossed Mustang a lighter and flames exploded into being. They didn't cause much harm as the rain snuffed them out almost immediately, but it was enough to give the soldiers a slight advantage.

"One on one is much better odds than eight on one!" Havoc shouted frantically. "The lieutenant's a good fighter, she can protect herself!"

"If she was really okay, she would have  _shot these bastards down_ by now!" Mustang roared.

Instinctively, Fuery craned his head up and squinted through the rain at the high buildings around them. Of course, Hawkeye was a  _sniper._  She would be in a location where she could see everything that was going on.

"Where is she?" Fuery yelled over all the noise. "Lieutenant Colonel,  _where is she?_ "

Mustang took a moment to answer as he was busy fending off two attackers at once. He took his eyes off them for the briefest moment to look at Fuery, at once doubting and desperate. He turned away and punched one of the men viciously. "Across the street in the Cayman apartment complex. Fifth floor, apartment C. And I swear to  _God_  if you're only going up there to help Davis—!"

Fuery didn't hear the rest as he was already up and running. He tore out into the street and slowed down for about half a second while he located the correct building and burst through the doors. People in the foyer looked on in alarm as he streaked by, but Fuery paid them no heed and took the stairs two at a time, wet boots slapping heavily on the wood.

He heard them long before he saw them. Shouts and gunshots on the fifth floor, coming from a corner apartment that would offer a perfect view of the surrounding area. Several civilians were already poking their heads out of the other apartments and gazing in that direction in alarm and undisguised curiosity.

"Get back inside!" Fuery barked, yanking open his coat. "Lock your doors! Do it  _now!_ "

At the sight of his uniform, everyone scrambled out of his way and gladly hid in their apartments to wait the violence out. Fuery didn't even try to open the door normally, just rammed it open with his shoulder. Hawkeye was grappling with Davis, both of them trapped in a tug of war over her sniper rifle. But Davis was much larger and stronger than her and was slowly prying the weapon from her hands. She took one hand off the rifle and began to draw her pistol.

"Lieutenant!" Fuery cried without thinking. Hawkeye looked in his direction briefly and that was enough of a distraction for Davis to yank the rifle away and strike her with it. The blow threw her against the window hard enough to crack the glass. Hawkeye slid to the floor, groaning, a trickle of blood trailing down the side of her face. Davis flung the rifle away and took the time to kick her pistol aside as well. It clattered beside Fuery's boot, the metal winking at him in the dimness.

"Mustang thinks too highly of you," Davis spat. "Worthless. Good job, Fuery. Dunno how you knew to come here, but it's high time we ended this..."

And with that, what little remnants of loyalty Fuery had ever felt for this man evaporated. He picked up Hawkeye's gun and aimed it squarely at Davis, immersed in such an icy rage that, for the first time, he no longer felt intimidated by the colonel's presence. "No, Colonel.  _I'm_  the one who's going to end this. Step away from her or, so help me, I'll shoot you  _dead!_ "

Two pairs of eyes shifted to him, one hazy and confused and the other nearly apoplectic. Davis really had no right to look so surprised. "You don't have the right to refuse my orders—"

" _She doesn't deserve to die!_ " Fuery said heatedly. "And neither does the lieutenant colonel! I can't stand by and let this happen, I  _can't_."

Davis faced him fully. "So you're going to kill me?" he said doubtfully, unconcerned. As though he truly didn't believe Fuery was capable of such a thing. "I've never even seen you  _hold_  a gun, let alone use it."

"There's a lot you never bothered to find out about me," Fuery said softly and immediately shot Davis in the leg. The colonel hit the ground howling, and Fuery raced past him to Hawkeye's side. He crouched in front of her, hand hovering over the cut on her head. "Lieutenant! Second Lieutenant Hawkeye!"

Slowly, one of her hands came up and grasped his weakly. "S-Sir..."

And despite the situation, Fuery had to laugh. "What're you sirring  _me_  for? You're the ranking officer here."

Brown eyes opened slowly, taking in his face for the first time. "Kain? I thought..."

" _You traitor!_ "

Fuery barely even had time to look around at the enraged shout before a fist slammed into his eye. His glasses crunched under the blow and Fuery cried out when some of the glass fractured into his eye. He lost his grip on Hawkeye's gun and sagged against the wall, still sobbing as he clutched his face blindly.

"I'll deal with you later, Sergeant," Davis snarled. "But first..."

Fuery scrubbed the tears from his face, blinking furiously. Despite the excruciating pain he was in, he could clearly see Davis clawing his way toward the sniper rifle. The colonel picked it and aimed it squarely at Hawkeye, and not even his shaking hands or the steady flow of blood from his leg would stop him from hitting his mark at this range. Fuery launched himself at Hawkeye in desperation to shield her and braced himself for a bullet in his back.

But at that moment Havoc came bursting through the door like a whirlwind and tackled Davis, wrenching the sniper rifle from his hands. He kicked Davis in the head for good measure before straightening up, keeping his weapon trained on the subdued colonel. "You guys okay?"

"I think I am," Fuery said shakily. "But Hawkeye..."

"Get her up and take her downstairs, if you can," Havoc instructed. "The military police should be here in a few minutes."

Fuery slung Hawkeye's arm over his shoulders and heaved the semi-conscious woman to her feet. "Where's the lieutenant colonel?"

"Oh, I expect he'll be along," Havoc said loftily. "Once he's finished up with the last of those bruisers. Right about..."

Footsteps thundered closer and Mustang made his appearance, breathing hard and a little roughed up from the fight in the alley but no worse. Right away, he moved to Hawkeye's other side to help hold her up. Fuery accepted his aid with a sigh of relief and covered his throbbing eye with his free hand, unable to hold back a wince. Mustang spared him a cursory look before turning to Davis. "Well, Colonel," he said derisively. "You really did a number on my men. I suppose that's something. You should give yourself a pat on the back on the way to prison."

And there was something about the way he said it. Fuery wasn't sure what exactly. Maybe it was Mustang's use of a more inclusive, general term, saying  _my men_  instead of  _my lieutenants_. Or maybe it was the way the four of them stood close together, moving and acting as one unit, and the way Davis glared up at them all hatefully. Or maybe Fuery had known it all along, from the moment he spoke with Mustang on that rainy day outside the mess. It could have been all of them or none of them.

On paper he may have still belonged to Davis...but the plain truth was that Mustang had made his claim a long time ago. And Fuery realized with a start that he didn't mind in the least.

Outside, the frantic peel of dozens of sirens rang through the streets.

"Master Sergeant," Mustang said evenly. "You and Hawkeye are going to need medical attention. There should be ambulances waiting outside, so get going. Davis and I have a few more things to discuss."

Fuery nodded, offering the only response that made sense. "Yes, sir."

Havoc laughed and clapped his shoulder as he helped Fuery support Hawkeye out the door. "It's a hell of a start, but welcome to the team, little guy. Welcome."

* * *

"How's the eye?"

Fuery looked up when Mustang pushed the privacy curtain aside and approached with Havoc in tow. He started to rise from the exam table where the doctor had left him but stopped when Mustang motioned him back down, and he touched the patch over his eye gingerly. "It's fine, sir. The doctor said this is only temporary until my cornea heals."

"Too bad," Mustang commented with a slight smile. "That's a good look for you. One look at that patch and women everywhere will be fawning over the poor little wounded soldier."

Fuery fidgeted awkwardly at the remark and tried to shrug it off. "I don't know about  _that..._ "

"In that case," Havoc laughed, "I'm definitely borrowing that patch once you're all healed up."

"I said it's a good look for  _Fuery_. You would just look like a demented pirate."

"Hey!"

"Is Lieutenant Hawkeye alright?" Fuery asked anxiously and endured a penetrating look from Mustang before he was answered.

"It was only a minor concussion," Mustang said, sounding relieved though there was still a dangerous note to his voice. "She's already woken, and both she and Havoc have told me of your efforts to stop Davis. I really am in your debt, Sergeant. Thank you."

Fuery shook his head quickly. "No, I should be apologizing for my part in all this! If I'd realized sooner what was going on..."

Mustang snorted. "Are you kidding? You and Davis did me a favor, Fuery."

"...how's that?"

"I made a lot of enemies in high places when I was transferred to East City," Mustang informed him quite frankly. "I knew it was only a matter of time before something like this took place. No one else will be quite so eager to stab me in my sleep now that they've seen what happens to those who fail. And thanks to  _you_ , Sergeant, not only are the higher-ups aware that my subordinates are incorruptible but they also know that I could make  _theirs_ turn on them at a moment's notice."

"You didn't exactly make me turn on Davis," Fuery muttered defensively.

Mustang tapped the side of his nose with a haughty smirk. " _They_  don't know that. In this case, a little rumor is more preferable to the truth."

Havoc plopped himself down in a seat nearby. "Speaking of rumors, do we know yet what's gonna happen to Davis?"

"Most likely a dishonorable discharge, if not the firing squad," Mustang told him. "We have enough evidence and witnesses in the form of those hired thugs to make the former a certainty, and his connections with the criminal underworld were only useful when he had military assets to pay them with. We won't have to worry about him anymore."

Fuery supposed he should be feeling glad of that, or at least relieved. But it wasn't like he could pretend the past three years working under Davis had never happened. It had been easier in the heat of the moment when hesitation might have cost him his life or Hawkeye hers, but the consequences were really hitting him now. Fuery had made a choice, taken a side, and that inevitably meant someone was going to suffer for it.

"Regrets?"

Fuery jerked out of his trance at Mustang's quiet inquiry. "No, I...well maybe...I don't know. I'm just a little mixed up now, I guess, after all that's happened."

"You can admit if you're not sure," Mustang assured him. "I'd be more concerned if you  _didn't_ feel in the least bit sorry for turning on your commander."

"A soldier's first loyalty should always be to his country," Fuery murmured to himself. "To his Fuhrer, to his commander. That's what they always told us in training."

But Mustang shook his head slowly. "That's where they were wrong. Your first loyalty should be to those who depend on you—those you could never bear to lose. You should defend them with all your might because protecting them in turn protects your country."

"Nice speech, sir," Havoc said dryly. "Quite eloquent and smarmy, if I do say so myself."

"I've got a million of 'em," Mustang retorted easily. He dug a deck of cards out of his pocket and tossed it to Havoc. "Good luck."

"Good luck with what?" Fuery asked in confusion, looking at the cards.

"Teaching  _you_  how to keep a decent poker face," Havoc explained. He tapped the deck in his hand, grinning. "Trust me, the more money you lose, the faster you'll learn."

Mustang crossed his arms sternly. "Now that you're my sergeant, I can't have you divulging all of my secrets simply because you're too transparent and honest for your own good. And being the youngest and puniest of my subordinates, you're the most likely to be interrogated first. This is for your own protection as well as mine."

" _P...Puniest?_ " Fuery croaked, mortified.

"Oh, and one more thing, Fuery."

He gulped when Mustang prowled toward the exam table like a predator, wearing much the same look as when he threatened Fuery outside the mess. "What are your feelings toward Lieutenant Hawkeye?"

"I... _what?_ "

"Hawkeye," Mustang repeated. "Do you care about her?"

"Of course I do...I-I mean, as a friend!"

"Really," Mustang deadpanned. "Because from the way you went rushing to her aid, it looked like a lot more than just friendly concern. But if you're positive your feelings are platonic..."

"I am!"

"Then just know this, Fuery," Mustang said, towering over him in a way that made the burn on his neck twinge with remembered pain. "If anything ever—and I mean  _ever_ —happens between you and my lieutenant, I will  _know_ it happened and exactly how and why it happened, and I will hunt you down and  _burn_ you so that it never happens again. Have I made myself clear?"

Flabbergasted and more than a little terrified, Fuery could only nod dumbly. Havoc snickered, but quickly shut up at a sharp look from Mustang. The lieutenant colonel swept out of the room and Fuery sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. "Sir...about the two of them..."

"You want to know if they're together?" Havoc said and shrugged. "I'm honestly not sure. But I can tell you this. They're close. I mean,  _really_ close. They served in Ishval together. When I joined his command, Mustang told me I could have any girl in the city who would take me as long as she didn't have blonde hair and kickass sniper skills. I met Hawkeye not long after that and put two and two together."

"And...Lieutenant Hawkeye doesn't mind?" Fuery said in amazement.

Havoc merely smiled. "She's pretty possessive of him too."

"Huh..."

"Come on!" Havoc said, slapping his back. "The doc has cleared you to go, right? You probably already know where it is, what with the whole bugging incident, but I'll show you to Mustang's office and we'll get your workstation all set up..."

"What?" Fuery said, startled. "You mean I'll be working in the lieutenant colonel's office? With you guys?"

Havoc gave him a funny look. "Where else would you be?"

 _In the basement_ , Fuery thought morbidly.  _Invisible, forgotten, brushed aside..._

But it seemed it wouldn't be that way under Mustang's wing. Fuery followed along in Havoc's wake, chatting and laughing with an ease that surprised him. He wasn't being ignored, he wasn't being taken for granted. Fuery had a hard time imagining things would always stay this way, but for now...for now he would savor it.

Maybe here, in this little world, he would finally be able to leave his mark.


	3. Second Lieutenant Heymans Breda

Breda eyed his adversary over the rim of his glass shrewdly, all the while careful not to falter in his chugging. The private wouldn't last much longer, not if the glassy look in his eye and the splash of color on his cheeks was anything to go by. If his friends and date hadn't been there to egg him on, there was no doubt he would have dropped long ago. He had only gotten through the last three beers through sheer force of will.

Breda gulped down the last frothy dregs and turned his glass upside down on the bar. "Should I wait for you to catch up?" he asked smartly.

The private rolled his eyes, but he was already starting to waver. He set his glass on the bar and took a deep breath. A big mistake. That would only compress his bloated stomach more and make it harder to swallow the next. Another round arrived and Breda toasted his opponent, noting how the private's lips tightened at the mere sight. He cast a significant look at Havoc, sitting on the stool beside him.

"I'm not paying up yet," Havoc said stubbornly. "He hasn't—"

Breda's foe hiccupped once and promptly vomited all that he had consumed in the last half hour. Oh, and it was a beautiful vomit indeed. Cascades of golden yellow that spewed from his mouth in a perfect arch and splattered all over his date. Her revolted shrieks as she fled in the direction of the bathroom were almost enough to disturb the pleasant buzzing in Breda's head. Almost.

Without looking he held out his hand for a doleful Havoc to deposit his winnings, and then cheerfully taunted each of the private's friends as they one by one handed over their money. "Thank you, always a pleasure. Thanks, bud. Next time give me an actual challenge, will you? Thanks, have a nice evening..."

"I don't know how you do it," Havoc said with a shudder. He started to lift his own beer to his lips but seemed to change his mind and sheepishly pushed it aside.

Breda tucked the tidy pile of cenz in his pocket. He could count it up later once his head was clear enough to keep track of the numbers. "Which? Drinking or spotting the weak stomachs?"

"Both," Havoc laughed. He nodded in the direction of the retreating losers, currently supporting their champion out the door. "Poor bastard. At least it wasn't like when  _we_ first met. Remember, when you got me arrested?"

Breda chuckled and claimed the private's untouched beer. "Well, if I'd known you were underage..."

"By one month!  _One!_ "

"And it wasn't my fault anyway.  _You're_  the one who started wailing that you should have a handicap or something because it was your first time drinking alcohol and that I was a heartless bastard for challenging a newbie to a contest. All I did was sit there and laugh as the MPs hauled your wasted ass out the door."

Havoc snorted and dug out his wallet. "You're a true friend, Breda.  _Truly._ "

"You're calling it a night already?" Breda said in surprise after Havoc settled his tab. "What the heck, Havoc? What if I pass out in the street on the way to my hotel?"

"You're still perfectly articulate. Besides, I've got to get in early tomorrow. Mustang left me some work to finish."

"Oh yeah," Breda said suddenly, grinning. "How's that working out? Let's see, it's been a couple months...he must have stolen about five girlfriends of yours by now. Not including Psycho Melinda, of course."

"He has not!" Havoc exclaimed and was met by a skeptical look. "I mean…well, just the one. And I guess you could count that secretary even though I hadn't  _technically_ asked her out yet."

"And the girl from the café."

Havoc winced. "Damn, forgot about her..."

Breda shook his head. "I just don't get it. How can you stand to work for a guy like that? And that aside, ever since he took you on, you've been bogged down with more work than you ever got at our old post."

"I honestly don't mind the work," Havoc admitted. "To tell the truth, East City's a hell of a lot more stimulating than border patrol."

Breda stared at him for a long, disbelieving moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it didn't, he set his glass down with a loud  _thunk_. "All right, who are you and what have you done with Havoc? Did Mustang brainwash you or something?"

Havoc chuckled as he stood and donned his coat. "Maybe I'm just maturing in my old age. You know, you should really consider transferring so we can work together again. It sucks not having any drinking buddies here. Fuery's got a stomach like a schoolboy, and Hawkeye doesn't drink period."

"What about your precious Flame Alchemist?"

"You know, I don't know," Havoc said after a moment. "I  _think_ he goes barhopping sometimes..."

"Even so, I ain't transferring," Breda said resolutely. "If anyone should be gunning for a transfer, it's  _you_. And since when do you care about putting in an honest day's work anyway? Didn't you tell me once that the military was just a stepping stone to early retirement with a wife and five kids...?"

" _Shh!_ " Havoc hissed, flapping his hands. "I told you about that kid thing in  _confidence!_  Commitment scares women off!"

"Only the worthless ones."

"You don't know that!"

"Oh really?" Breda snorted. He turned in his seat to face the rest of the bar at large. " _Yo, ladies!_  Which of you would consider having five kids with my buddy Havoc here?"

" _Breda!_ " Havoc howled and dove under the bar to escape the dozens of feminine eyes that had settled on his quivering form. Some only smiled and turned back to their friends, assuming it was a joke, while others either blushed or paled as their personalities dictated and sought seats far away from the bar. Breda ducked his head and grinned at Havoc's betrayed glare.

"See, what'd I tell you? Worthless, every one of them. And I only asked them to  _consider_  it. It's not like I made it a requirement."

"Freaking  _thank_ you, Breda," Havoc grumbled. "Thanks a lot for erecting a force field of  _rejection_  around me. I'm going home now before you tell them I'm a serial killer."

"Come on, I wouldn't do that to you!" Breda called at his friend's retreating back. But not long after the door swung shot, his grin slipped. Maybe he shouldn't have ribbed Havoc quite so mercilessly. It wasn't the poor guy's fault that any interaction with the opposite sex tended to end in failure.

He supposed he just couldn't help teasing. Breda had missed this. Hanging out with his best bud, drinking and talking and laughing their evenings away before the next shift. Who else could he do that with at their old post? Most of the soldiers there were either green recruits or veterans of the war caught up in the horrors of the past. Breda checked in with Havoc's parents often, both for his friend's benefit and to assuage his own loneliness, but they were so caught up in raising the rest of the adolescent horde that they didn't have much time for anything else.

Breda scowled. He had expected it would only take a few weeks before Havoc remembered why he hated Mustang and made his escape back home. But it had been months now and Havoc hadn't budged an inch. He seemed perfectly happy with the circumstances, and any complaints had to be dragged out of him.

What reason did Havoc have for staying here? It was true that working in East City under the command of a State Alchemist was a surefire way to advance the ranks, but Havoc never used to care about that before. He was a hopeless romantic with the makings of a family man. The uniform had always been a means to an end for him, not a way of life. And  _why_  had Mustang gone out of his way to recruit Havoc? If Breda was brutally honest, Havoc was only an okay soldier. He could shoot a gun, but that was about it. State Alchemists didn't waste time on average mortals.

Something was going on here and Breda wasn't going anywhere without an answer. And if he didn't find one by the time his leave was over, then he would simply take his friend by the scruff of his neck and haul him back home. Let Mustang try to stop him if he could.

"Will you be alright getting back to your hotel, Lieutenant?" the bartender asked him. "You had quite a lot."

"Yeah, yeah," Breda muttered and slid off his stool. He kept a precautionary hand on the bar just to be sure he truly had his balance and burped loudly. "I'll be fine. I doubt I'll even have a hangover tomorrow…"

The bartender cleared his throat pointedly. Breda looked at him without comprehension before he remembered exactly why he had been permitted to have a drinking contest. He sighed and yanked his winnings out of his pocket, putting a substantial amount into the man's palm. The bartender pocketed the money with a nod and a grin. "Thanks much, Lieutenant. Never seen someone hold their liquor quite like you."

"Please, this is nothing," Breda boasted. "By the time I head back to my post, I'll have made half my paycheck."

"Well, feel free to hold those contests here!" the bartender called after him as he tottered to the door. "The wife likes the shop, I could use the extra income."

* * *

Breda's prediction of not having a hangover the next morning turned out to be completely and utterly...false. He groaned when the phone woke him up with an earsplitting peal right in his ear and cradled his aching head. He must have lost track of just how many he'd really had. At least he didn't have to be anywhere today. He was on vacation, damn it! There was nothing to stop him from staying curled up in his hotel bed and sleeping beyond noon.

Nothing except the phone, that is. Breda fumbled blindly until his fingers found the cord and gave it a swift tug to yank it from the wall, silencing it. He grunted in satisfaction and turned over. That was  _much_  better. Whoever it was would just have to wait until he slept this migraine off.

Ten minutes later, someone pounded on his door. "Excuse me, Mr. Breda? Are you in?"

"No!"

"Sir, I have a message for you," the woman insisted. "The sender tried to call you but couldn't get through on the phone in your room..."

"There's a reason for that," Breda growled to himself. "If the message is from Havoc, tell him he can kiss my—!"

"Sir, please!" the woman said, sounding mortified. "There are families staying here! And actually, the message is from a lieutenant colonel named Roy Mustang."

Breda's head snapped up, a motion he quickly regretted. "Did you say Mustang?"

"Yes, sir."

Breda laid his head back down with a heavy sigh, wishing he could just ignore it. But when a superior officer summoned a lower ranking soldier, there was no getting out of it. And there was always a chance this was something official. Like maybe the Xingese had crossed the desert in force and invaded and they needed anyone who could hold a gun to push them back.

He was pretty sure he would have overheard that.

Slowly and painfully, Breda rolled out of bed and staggered across his room. He had a moment of confusion when he opened the door and no one was there. The woman came running back quickly, pretending she hadn't just tried to leave, and held up a piece of paper. "Mr. Mustang requested that you see him at the command center. Today, if possible."

Breda scratched his head. He couldn't for the life of him think of any reason for Mustang to contact him. He shouldn't even know Breda's name. "Did he say why he wants to see me?"

"I'm afraid not. He had me write down directions if you need them."

"Fine, I guess I can't ignore it," Breda muttered, snatching the paper away. Ignoring the woman's affronted look at his rudeness, he shut the door in her face and went to work on making himself somewhat presentable. Breda hadn't bothered to bring his uniform and his civilian clothes were casual at best, but they would have to do. He dressed, did what he could about his hair and stepped out the door, making a detour to the dining room first. Food always did wonders for his rare hangovers, and Mustang could damn well wait until he had eaten.

By the time he had eaten it was leaning closer to noon, and Breda called up a cab for himself. He remained in deep thought during the drive, and by the time they pulled up to the Eastern Command Center, he was no closer to puzzling out why Mustang wanted to see him. He would just have to ask the man himself. Breda stepped out of the cab, scrutinizing the fortress he had heard so much about but never seen himself. He passed by many soldiers on his way inside, only pausing once to ask the secretaries for directions. They directed him with only minor swooning at Mustang's name, which pushed Breda into an even fouler mood. He wandered until he found the correct office and breezed inside, wishing he had just ignored the summons.

"Oh...are you Lieutenant Breda?"

Breda paused when he saw a sergeant at a desk in the corner, elbow deep in paperwork. The eyepatch clumsily applied behind his glasses gave his identity away from the stories Havoc had told him. Fuery half stood gave Breda a smile of welcome. "I'm sorry, but the lieutenant colonel isn't in right now. He's at lunch."

"Is he?" Breda said without any real lament, turning to go. "Guess I'll catch him some other time."

"He'll be back soon!" Fuery called. "It's alright for you to wait here..."

Breda ignored him and pulled the door open, nearly running into someone on the other side. He smothered a scowl when he saw Mustang standing there with his hand still stretched out for the handle. He eyed Breda up and down. "Lieutenant Breda?"

He put his hands on his hips. "Yeah, that's me."

Mustang nodded and moved past Breda in the direction of the inner office, gesturing at him to follow. "Fuery, make sure we're not disturbed."

"Yes, sir."

Breda followed Mustang to the inner office with only slight trepidation. He hadn't expected a private meeting and for a moment he thought this might actually be something serious. But Breda almost discounted that notion when Mustang sat behind his desk and took a small chessboard from one of the drawers. "Have a seat, Lieutenant. I thought we might enjoy a game of chess. Havoc tells me you're a fan of strategy games."

"A game of chess," Breda said flatly. "Is that all you called me here for, Lieutenant Colonel? I have a hard time believing that."

Far from looking surprised or put out, Mustang only smiled a little as he set up the pieces. "I suppose there's no use holding back. The truth is that I want to discuss the possibility of you transferring to East City under my command."

Breda just managed to restrain his shock to a single raised eyebrow. And inwardly he cursed Havoc. He was sure this was all his friend's fault somehow. "I see," he said at last. "And the game is just a way to make me more receptive to whatever you have to say."

"Exactly."

Breda leveled one last measuring look at the lieutenant colonel before he took the seat across from him. He never could turn down a challenge, and the truth was that Mustang had piqued his curiosity. For Havoc's sake, he would give this man a chance. A very, very  _small_  chance.

Once he was done setting up, Mustang turned the board so the white pieces faced Breda. He pondered this, wondering whether Mustang was allowing him to go first as a courtesy or if he was just that confident. Either way it didn't sit well with him. What kind of idiot willingly gave up being able to make the first move? Breda studied the board for several minutes, letting the silence draw out. Mustang didn't give a single sign of impatience, which Breda secretly applauded. He leaned forward and moved his first pawn. "Did Havoc put you up to recruiting me?"

Mustang moved his own pawn. And so the battle began. "Yes and no. It's true that I'm currently recruiting subordinates with a wide array of expertise, but I only know of you through Havoc. He mentions you often, and it's clear he misses working with you."

"And that's your first concern, is it?" Breda said, not bothering to hide his disbelief. "The welfare of your subordinates?"

Dark eyes flicked up and Breda saw a flash of honest anger there as he captured the first black pawn. But the expression was gone in an instant when Mustang lowered his gaze to the board again. He countered by moving his knight into play and taking a white pawn. "As a matter of fact, it is. Although I understand that my actions may not always make it appear so."

"Don't give me that," Breda retorted. "From what Havoc's told me, you're just as power hungry as the rest of them."

Mustang paused. "What has Havoc told you?"

Breda glanced up in the act of moving another piece. "Nothing of note. Why? Got any secrets, Mustang?"

His face was a stone mask. Breda pursed his lips when he couldn't interpret the poker face. "Eyes on the board, Flame. So why me? We've never met before, let alone worked together. You don't know anything about me."

Mustang tapped the edge of the board with his finger, apparently thinking. But instead of going for another of Breda's pieces, he settled for arranging his own into a more suitable formation. "The same could be said about Havoc when I first recruited him. I think it's safe to say that he knows you far better than I do so I'm going on his judgment here. Well, his and your current superiors'."

"You've talked with my current superiors?" Breda said, his outrage completely artificial. The truth was that he had expected it. Mustang would have been a poor strategist indeed to make his offer without having all the information he needed.

"They only have good things to say about you," Mustang said with a small smile, letting Breda know that he wasn't fooling anyone. "You're a valuable soldier and an excellent strategist, both of which the State can never have enough of. Any commander would be lucky to have you."

"But you think you have the advantage because you already have Havoc," Breda said with a slow grin. "Are you sure that'll be enough to sway me?"

Mustang shrugged carelessly, eyes alight with challenge. "One can hope. It's your move."

The pawns were all in play now and Breda liked the layout. It was clear that Mustang played chess often and had a well-rounded understanding of the game. But it was also clear that he only played against a narrow range of people. His moves were practiced and smooth like he had made them many times in the past and was assured of his victory. With that in mind, Breda wondered how Mustang would react to the unexpected. He brought his queen into play, a risky move this early in the game. Mustang's eyebrows flew up and it took him a moment to decide what he wanted to do about it.

"So what's in it for me to transfer?" Breda said frankly. "Just so you know, I happen to like where I'm at and who I'm working for."

"And that's your choice," Mustang acknowledged. He made to move his king to safety, but changed his mind and took out one of Breda's rooks instead. "But the opportunity won't be open forever. I expect you to make a decision before your leave is up."

"That's a little soon, isn't it?"

"I have no use for soldiers that remain indecisive. I'm sure you're already aware of the benefits of transferring. East City is a prime place to get noticed by the higher-ups and advance the ranks…"

"Maybe those benefits don't mean squat to me," Breda interrupted, catching Mustang off guard. "Oh...didn't plan on that, did you? I'm not a very career-minded individual."

"Then why don't you tell me what  _does_ matter to you," Mustang pressed.

"My friends, for one," Breda told him fiercely. "So what do you say to that, Mustang? What if I don't appreciate the way you've been treating my friend? What if I think it'd be best for both me  _and_ Havoc to leave East City behind and go back to our old post? Check."

Mustang's eyes darted to the board in alarm and he backed his king up quickly. "How exactly does Havoc say I treat him?" he demanded.

Breda advanced his bishop, claiming the black queen, and threw his opponent a withering look. "He's not complaining, if that's what you're asking. And that's the most frustrating thing of all. I'd be pissed if my commander had so little respect for me."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about that girl he was dating last week!" Breda snapped angrily. "And the one before her and the one before that! Havoc's hopeless enough at relationships without someone swooping in and ruining it for him. You think I can work for a guy that doesn't recognize certain boundaries?"

Mustang stared at him incredulously. "You're holding out for something as frivolous as  _that?_ "

"I doubt Havoc sees it as frivolous," Breda shot back. "We're talking about my best friend here!"

"I don't encourage them to dump him," Mustang said sourly as his second knight went down. The game was progressing much more rapidly now, galloping toward a swift and deadly conclusion.

"You don't do anything to discourage them either," Breda said without an ounce of pity. "I don't know why you brought Havoc here, but he deserves better than—"

Mustang took up his remaining rook and knocked over Breda's queen with loud click. "Is that all you think I'm about? Using my subordinates to boost my own ego?"

"I call it like I see it. Checkmate."

Mustang leaned back and crossed his arms, glowering at the chessboard as if hoping to find where he went wrong so he could rewind the game and fix it. "I'll only say this in my defense. I'm a human being, and therefore I'm not perfect. How I interact with Havoc's girlfriends doesn't reflect my entire being."

"I'd say it reflects a decent portion of it," Breda said darkly and got to his feet. "I'll be going now. Don't expect to hear from me again."

"I won't," Mustang said, accepting defeat with only a smidgeon of grace. "But I'd like you to consider this. If I'm such a terrible person, then why is Havoc still here in East City?"

"It's the mystery of the century to me," Breda muttered.

"You seem protective of him."

On his way to the door, Breda stopped with his hand on the handle. "Have you got any brothers, Mustang?"

"No, I don't," Mustang replied after a moment. "A lot of sisters, but no brothers."

"Neither do I," Breda said quietly, looking back. "But I have a friend who is my brother in everything but blood. It's not that I want to protect him, more like I  _need_ to protect him because there are times when his stupidity prevents him from protecting himself. But I doubt someone like you could understand that."

He yanked the door open and stepped out, startling the sergeant so badly that his papers scattered. It was only as Breda pulled the door shut again behind him that he caught Mustang's murmured response.

"You're wrong. I understand  _exactly_  what that's like..."

* * *

The rest of Breda's vacation was fairly enjoyable. That is, if one didn't count the incredible amount of time he spent arguing with Havoc once his friend learned exactly why Mustang had summoned him to his office. What had started out as a reasonable debate supported by logical reasoning on either side quickly regressed into something more like a children's quarrel by the time the last night of Breda's leave rolled around.

"Transfer back!"

"Transfer here!"

" _Transfer back!_ "

" _Transfer here!_ "

"Damn it, Havoc!" Breda cried in disgust, throwing up his hands. "Will you pull your head out of your ass already?"

"Only if you take your own advice first!" Havoc shot back, nearly running into a street lamp because he was so busy trying to stare him down. Breda made a disgusted noise and marched on ahead, ignoring the exasperated snort behind him. They rounded the corner and stopped when they saw a packed pub across the street with the utterly unimaginative name  _The Dog's Den_. Breda suspected it to be some kind of inside joke as the pub was stationed only a few blocks from headquarters and mainly catered to soldiers.

"That's the place?"

Havoc nodded curtly. "Yeah. We're a little late though. They might already be here."

"Let's just get this over with," Breda muttered, jabbing his hands into his pockets. "I can't believe you dragged me into a blind date, of all things..."

"Well, what else could I do?" Havoc protested as they crossed the street. "She said she'd only go out with me if I brought a friend for her friend! Fuery couldn't make it, so it was either you or Mustang."

"Alright, I see your point," Breda sighed. "But don't get your hopes up. From what you've told me, this date of yours is more interested in seeing her friend hooked up than getting hooked up herself."

"...is it too late for us to switch dates?" Havoc said glumly.

"Yes," Breda snickered. He bumped Havoc's shoulder. "Come on, you'll be fine."

Havoc pulled the door open and they squeezed their way inside. Voices and laughter assaulted them from all sides and Breda inhaled the familiar tang of spirits and humanity. Pubs had long been a safe haven for him, a place where everyone was united in their common goal to relax and do absolutely nothing productive. He and Havoc meandered their way to the crowded bar where they ordered drinks and settled in.

"So what's this Rebecca look like?" Breda inquired. "And you haven't told me anything about her friend yet."

"Rebecca's awesome," Havoc replied, clearly relishing the image in his head. "Curly hair, loud and busty. She wouldn't tell me anything about her friend though."

"Oh come on, that's not fair," Breda griped. "How do I know she's not another Psycho Melinda?"

"There you are, Jean!"

Two pale arms flung themselves around Havoc's neck, causing him to choke and sputter. A dark haired woman peered around his shoulder with a brilliant grin. "Oh, sorry honey! Didn't mean to make you jump."

"You didn't!" Havoc objected. "I just swallowed wrong, that's all!"

" _Suuure_ ," Rebecca laughed and plopped down on one of the barstools. She eyed Breda up and down. "Mm, not bad. He looks tough enough to handle Riza."

"Riza?" Breda inquired. At the same time Havoc looked past Rebecca and emitted an odd choking noise. Breda didn't see what the big deal was. His date wasn't  _that_ pretty. She wore a long skirt and casual top that weren't designed to show of anything, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a neat, unsexy bun. She didn't look like she cared one whit about making an impression, especially given that she was staring at Havoc rather than him.

"Havoc?"

" _Hawkeye!_ " Havoc gasped.

"Hawkeye?" Breda asked, recognizing  _that_  name from their conversations.

"Oh for God's sake," Rebecca snapped. "Call your date by her first name!  _Men_..."

"Havoc, let's talk," Breda said abruptly and steered him away from the bar. He slapped a few bills on the counter. "You ladies get yourselves a drink."

"Will do!" Rebecca called.

Once they were out of easy hearing range, Breda turned to the blond in exasperation. "Seriously, Hawkeye? As in  _Mustang's_  Hawkeye? Of all people, Havoc!"

"I didn't know it would be her!" Havoc insisted. "I didn't even know she and Rebecca knew each other! It was an honest mistake."

Breda sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Well, I guess it's not  _that_ big a deal. It's only a date."

"You wouldn't be saying that if you heard what Mustang said he'd do to Fuery if he so much as  _looked_ at her funny!"

"So I'm supposed to be scared of a guy who terrorized a little four-eyed nerd? I don't think so, I've got more guts than that."

"Yoo hoo, boys!" Rebecca chimed, waving at them. "We're still waiting for you to show us a good time!"

Breda clapped a nervous Havoc on the shoulder. "Just chill. I doubt Mustang's going to hunt me down here so let's just all have a good time."

Havoc didn't look entirely convinced, but he slid into the stool beside Rebecca and stiffly introduced Hawkeye and Breda to each other. They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries while Havoc and Rebecca settled into a conversation. Rebecca had her legs crossed and leaned forward with her chin in her hands, a pose that could have been flirtatious but to Breda it looked very much like she wanted to eat him.

Hawkeye coolly ordered a nonalcoholic drink and looked at Breda as thought daring him to say something about it. Breda merely reclaimed his beer and remained silent. He didn't give a damn if she drank or not, but he found it interesting that she was braced for a negative reaction. Something else caught his eye and he glance down when the slit in her skirt fell open a little and revealed a holster strapped to her thigh. Breda looked at her. Hawkeye arched an eyebrow, and he had no trouble reading that expression.  _I brought it for a reason. Don't make me use it._

Breda sighed and set his beer down. "Alright, it's pretty obvious neither of us is interested in dating. But can we at least have a conversation like normal people instead of raising our hackles at each other?"

Her lips parted in surprise. "That's awfully honest of you."

"I never was a fan of the whole concept of dating," Breda admitted. "It's all just one lie after another. Every woman I've dated will  _say_ they like me, but it's pretty clear from their actions that they'd rather morph me into the perfect fucking gentleman while I'm not looking."

Hawkeye considered him thoughtfully. "You mean they try to make you lose weight."

Breda cast her a withering look. "Now who's the honest one?"

"I've been telling him to lose the weight!" Havoc butted in teasingly. "Go out and run laps or  _something_. It can't be good for his love life."

"Is it a crime to like food better than women?" Breda demanded, thumping his fist on the bar. "I may not be in the best shape, but at least I can beat you at arm wrestling, you twig!"

"Well,  _I_ can shoot a gun better!"

"I can drink you under the table!"

Rebecca, who had been watching the back and forth exchange, spoke up. "You two wouldn't happen to be related, would you?"

"Hell no, what makes you say that?" Havoc and Breda said at the same time and glared at each other uselessly. Then Hawkeye laughed, a surprising sound to hear. All of Havoc's stories had lead Breda to believe that her sense of humor was nonexistent.

"I'm sorry," Hawkeye chortled. "But you remind me of these other two I know who are constantly mistaken as brothers. It must be the way you argue without really meaning it."

Havoc groaned. "Ugh, you mean  _those_ two? Hawkeye if I  _ever_  become like Hughes, I beg you to gun me down."

"I'm a little lost," Breda said to Rebecca.

Rebecca nodded. "You and me both."

" _Drinking contest!_ "

Raucous cheers on the other side of the bar caught their attention where a large and rowdy group had gathered. Breda sized them up the two men at the center of attention. One of them was all muscle and sported the bushiest beard he had ever seen. He was the louder of the two, boasting heartily to his circle of supporters. His opponent was a midget by comparison, but on the other hand he wasn't bothering with petty insults. As if he had nothing to prove.

"The skinny guy is going to win," Breda said at once.

"There's no way he'll last against that giant!" Havoc countered. "He looks like he eats pipsqueaks like that for breakfast!"

"Want to put money on it?"

"You bet I do!"

"Do we really have to watch this?" Hawkeye said jadedly as their group relocated. "It's so…juvenile."

"No one's asking you to participate," Rebecca chirped. She looped her arm through Havoc's and dragged him off. "Can't you relax even for a second, Riza? You're such a drag all the time!"

Breda clapped his date on the shoulder, ignoring the way Hawkeye tensed at the familiar gesture. "Let me guess. Telling you to relax is like everyone telling me to lose weight?"

Hawkeye grimaced and looked away. In the noise accompanying the start of the contest, it was almost impossible to hear her response. "I wouldn't say  _that_. Just that my definition of relaxation does not involve drinking or blind dates. I'd much rather be at home."

"But you're here now," Breda pointed out. "So there's no use whining about it. Times like these are the only times I get to spend with the people I really care about so...I guess I just don't get why you'd rather be somewhere else. It's not like you're among strangers. Well, except for me, I guess."

Hawkeye didn't answer at first, but there was a small degree of wistfulness in her eye as she watched Rebecca and Havoc cheer the drinkers robustly. The skinny guy was still steady as a rock while his opponent wavered, red-cheeked and bright-eyed. "You make it sound so easy," she said quietly.

"Are you saying it's utterly impossible to go with the flow and enjoy our company for an evening? Because really, that's all  _I'm_ asking of you tonight."

When she didn't look quite convinced, Breda went on. "If I get drunk and start acting like an ass, you can blow my head off. Deal?"

Wonder upon wonders, Hawkeye laughed again and relaxed just a bit. She even deigned to watch the contest with them. It lasted quite awhile even by Breda's standards with the larger of the two folding like a stack of cards just as he predicted. The skinny winner allowed himself to be hoisted onto the shoulders of his supporters, but within seconds begged to be let down again so he could rush to the bathroom, his face quite green. Breda happily counted his winnings from Havoc while the other complained loudly about his friend gambling him into bankruptcy, and that soon turned into an enthusiastic recount of Havoc's night spent in lockup for underage drinking. Rebecca shared some tales of her own, and they even coaxed Hawkeye into telling the story of Sergeant Fuery trying his first beer two weeks before on his twenty-first birthday, which had them all laughing until they couldn't breathe. It was the most fun Breda had had since Havoc's transfer, and he found himself struggling to remember his reasons for leaving. He just didn't want this to end...

At some point while Hawkeye was conversing with Rebecca, Havoc tipped his head in Breda's direction, smiling foolishly. "I'm surprised you're still alive."

"How's that?"

Havoc jerked chin back. "Behind you, on your seven. Mustang walked in about twenty minutes ago and he's been watching you like a wolf for the past ten. I think he's only just now realized we're all double dating."

Breda glanced back. True to Havoc's word, there he was leaning against the far wall and nursing his own beer. At first glance he appeared to be quite at ease as he flirted carelessly with one of the secretaries from headquarters. But his attention kept straying beyond her shoulder and locking onto another woman—the one sitting right beside Breda.

Havoc snickered, just inebriated enough to be more amused than alarmed by Mustang's presence. "Wow, he actually looks a little jealous. That's a first."

"Why should he be?" Breda said slyly. "They're not dating, you said so yourself. So she's fair game."

On the pretext of leaning over to ask Hawkeye if she wanted another drink, Breda allowed his hand to rest on her lower back. An innocent enough gesture, but from across the room it could easily be misinterpreted and make it appear Breda was whispering sweet nothings in her ear. Which was exactly what happened. He could practically hear Mustang grinding his teeth and see fire flashing in his eyes. Even the secretary noticed and looked around to see what he was staring at. She tossed her hair, saying something in a miffed tone, and she seemed even more annoyed when Mustang hardly paid her any heed.

Ah, revenge was sweet. On Havoc's behalf, of course.

"Say, Hawkeye," Breda said, raising his voice. "Have you ever been out east to mine and Havoc's old post? It's a nice place. You ought to come with him the next time he gets some leave and visits home."

"I suppose I could," Hawkeye said after a moment, oblivious to her superior's twitching eyebrow. "It's not often I leave East City, and I'd like to meet Havoc's family."

"I'll introduce you," Breda offered her. "His parents are great people. But I'll warn you now, they're matchmakers. I guarantee within the first five minutes they'll be introducing you to every upstanding man in town."

Hawkeye didn't look at all excited by that prospect. "Oh...really..."

Breda nudged her playfully. "Don't worry, I'll protect you. Or you could just tell them you're seeing me. That should get 'em to back off..."

That did it. Mustang set his beer down with great care as though he was resisting the urge to smash it and stalked through the crowd toward them. It took him quite some time to maneuver the masses and during that time Hawkeye and Rebecca excused themselves to go to the bathroom. Havoc attempted to flee, but Breda yanked him back down by the collar of his shirt and calmly toasted Mustang. "Come to see me off, Flame?"

"Something like that," Mustang said through gritted teeth. "Havoc told me you two would be here tonight, and I wanted to give you one more chance to reconsider my offer."

He shot a dangerous look at Havoc, who visibly wilted. "Had I known you were on a date with  _my_  lieutenant..."

"Guess that's what you alchemists call Equivalent Exchange," Breda said coolly. "You took my buddy, so I..."

"Might not want to finish that sentence," Havoc advised him when Mustang first blanched then reddened in anger.

"So this is how it works, Lieutenant Breda?" Mustang demanded. "You have the nerve to lecture me about using other people and then turn right around and pull something like this—!"

"Maybe now you understand how Havoc feels every damn day of his life!"

" _Hey!_ "

"You just don't seem to get that respect is a two-way street," Breda snapped, poking Mustang in the chest. "And if you want mine, you'll have to try a little harder."

"I don't need respect from  _you_ ," Mustang snarled. "Nor do I need your blessing to keep Havoc under my command!"

"If you think for one second I'll let you walk all over my best friend—!"

"Stop it, both of you!" Havoc pleaded and jumped between them. "Look, I don't want you guys to fight over this!"

"Well too bad, because it looks like we're about to!" Breda roared, shoving him aside. "I'll take you on anytime, Flame!"

"Same here!" Mustang shouted. "I can take two seconds out of my day to  _kick your ass!_ "

" _Drinking contest!_ "

Both of them paused right in the middle of their respective rants when people began to crowd closer, bunching up so everyone could see them. Breda watched without comprehension as money changed hands and voices shouted for beers to be delivered to their side of the bar. "What the hell...?"

"You've  _got_ to be kidding," Mustang groaned and rubbed his face. He faced the masses with hands on his hips. "Alright whoever said that is going the right way for a court martial! We are  _not_  going to be your drunken entertainment!"

"Hold on a minute," Breda said, the wheels turning in his head. He stepped up to the bar where the first round awaited them. "That may not be a bad idea."

"What are you talking about?" Mustang said sharply.

Breda sat down heavily on a stool, rapping the bar with his knuckles. "I'm talking about a rematch, Mustang. Winner take all. If I win, Havoc transfers back to our old post."

Havoc made an indignant noise. "I didn't agree to that—!"

Mustang crossed his arms. "I have no reason to accept that bet."

"Oh, yes you do," Breda said smartly. "Because if by some wild fluke you win…I'll transfer under your command before the month is out. That's what you want, right?"

A spark of interest came to Mustang's eyes and he looked from him to the two glasses of amber liquid awaiting them. For a moment Breda really thought he would walk away, but then the alchemist took a seat opposite him, to the approving cheers of the general masses. "There's a reason your mother told you not to play with fire," he said boldly.

"Place your bets, place your bets!"

"This is gonna be awesome! Take him down, Flame!"

" _What_ is going on?" Hawkeye shouted. She pushed her way to the front of the pack, looking between Breda and Mustang in utter bewilderment. "Sir, what do you think you're doing?"

"Just what you wanted me to do," Mustang said cheerily. "I'm recruiting!"

"Oh, this looks like fun!" Rebecca cried.

"Get started already!" someone in the back yelled and the rest of the soldiers shouted in agreement. Breda was pleased to see more people crowded on his side of the bar than Mustang's. He was taking a big risk here, but Breda was of the opinion that it was worth it. He had never lost a drinking contest and he wasn't about to start now, especially not to someone like Mustang.

"Contestants, take your pints!" an impromptu judge yelled. " _Go!_ "

As one, Mustang and Breda raised their beers and started chugging. The patrons went wild, pounding the tables and stamping the floor in excitement. The bartender was already filling up the next round as he kept a careful eye on them, possibly with his own stake in the action. Breda was impressed that Mustang was keeping up. The lieutenant colonel threw back the beer like water, which suggested he was accustomed to much stronger stuff. It would take more than a few beers to make him tipsy. If he went down, it wouldn't be from the alcohol but from the sheer volume his stomach could take at one time. In that, at least, Breda expected to outmatch him.

They finished the first round off at almost the same time. Two more overflowing glasses were planted before them and Breda took one. "Pace yourself, Flame," he taunted casually. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

"And you think you do?" Mustang smirked, lifting the mug to his lips.

Breda drained the next few beers more slowly, but still at a reasonable rate. It was all about stamina, he reminded himself as they worked their way through round after round. Bets were soon being paid up as he and Mustang passed the number of drinks originally predicted. It was a gratifying sensation and riled Breda up more than ever. Of course, that could just be the alcohol.

"This is ridiculous," Hawkeye muttered once Havoc had finished explaining the situation. "How is this going to prove anything, except for who's the bigger idiot?"

"We already know the answer to  _that_ ," Breda huffed. "Next round!"

"We'll be here all night if this keeps up," Havoc sighed.

Once again Mustang and Breda squared off and downed their beers. They glowered at each other over the rims, each daring the other to give in. Breda plunked his empty glass on the bar first and had to take a minute to remember what he was going to say. "If tha's wha...if  _that's what_  it takes to get you out of this damn city."

Mustang coughed and wiped his mouth. "Really think I'll let that happen? Havoc's too useful to me."

"Why's that? Cause he brings the women to you?"

"Hey, that's uncalled for!" Havoc protested. "Well, sort of. I mean I didn't even  _like_  that last girl..."

"Shut it, Havoc," Mustang growled. He pointed one wavering finger at Breda. "Nothin' you say'll change his mind. Gotta beat him at his own damn game before he listens. I got him all figgered out!"

"Sounded a little  _slurry_  there, Mustang."

The lieutenant colonel only shook his head and reached for his glass with a shaking hand, lips pressed tightly together. His smug look was almost entirely wiped away, replaced by one of sheer willpower, but that couldn't hide the fact that his face was getting redder and redder by the minute. It wouldn't be much longer now. Unfortunately, the same could also be said of him. Breda's vision was blurring around the edges and there was an odd humming in his head that only happened when he was about to cross the line from  _just enough_  to  _way too much_. Now was the time to speed up. He had to get as much down as possible before the alcohol stole his senses.

It happened just as they finished off the ninth round. The empty glass slipped from Mustang's hand and shattered on the floor. He clapped his hands over his stomach and mouth, eyes wide. "Oh crap," he groaned, doubling over. "Oh, no. Oh,  _damn_  it, don't…"

"Someone get a bucket!"

"S'alright, Mustang," Breda cajoled him. "Just let it out. I admit, y'lasted longer'n I thought…"

"Not...done yet," Mustang panted. He swallowed convulsively and straightened up. "I'll beat you. Just...need a sec..."

"Yeah, well I'm not giving it to you," Breda said and waved at the bartender, startled when he knocked over the empty glasses lining the bar. It was hitting him hard now. He probably only had seconds left. Breda threw back his head and gulped down two beers in record time while Mustang scrambled to keep up. Even more money was passed around, and Breda was alarmed to see more and more people moving over to Mustang's side of the bar.

"You two have got to slow down!" Hawkeye said anxiously. "Before you both wind up in the hospital!"

Like hell he was stopping, not when he was about to win! Just look, Mustang was starting to sway back and forth! Or was he the one swaying? His surroundings had blended into one solid mass of color and noise so it was difficult to tell. Breda hiccupped and wiped his mouth, blinking stupidly at the beers being set down before them and trying to find the strength to reach for one. His stomach felt packed to the point of bursting. But if he was feeling like this, then Mustang couldn't be far behind! He just had to last a little longer. Just one more round...

Mustang seized the beer nearest him and gulped it down, and then he guzzled Breda's as well. He slammed the glass down and turned bloodshot, but determined eyes on him. "Should I wait for you to catch up?"

"Breda? Hey, you alright?"

Breda's eyes rolled up and he slumped forward, unconscious long before his forehead hit the bar.

* * *

When Breda awoke, he was in no way grateful for the cot he was lying on because it was extremely uncomfortable and did absolutely nothing to alleviate the hangover from  _hell_. He couldn't remember a time when he had felt more physically sick, and his head pounded with every tick of the clock on the wall.

He curled into the fetal position, moaning as he squinted at his surroundings. A small clinical room occupied by two cots and some supply cabinets greeted him, and if Breda didn't recognize this exact room he was at least familiar with the underlying theme. This looked like the resting rooms off a main infirmary, a place where those not in immediate need of a hospital could recuperate from anything from a sprain to a stomachache. Outside the window, the sky was beginning to lighten with the dawn, revealing the parade grounds of the command center. Made sense. Headquarters was much closer than Havoc's place or his hotel.

Breda very carefully pushed himself upright, feeling nausea claw its ugly way up his throat. What the hell had he done to put himself in this state? Overindulging on alcohol was normally not something he allowed himself to do. He tried to remember the night before. He went on that date with Havoc where he met Hawkeye. And then Mustang had shown up, and after that...

Oh. Crap.

Breda looked quickly at the other cot, but it was unoccupied. A few seconds later, he learned why when he caught the faint sounds of retching and heaving coming from the bathroom. The noises soon diminished into weak panting and the light seeping under the door vanished when a switch was flicked off. Mustang appeared in the door, pale and shaky, leaning heavily on the frame.

"My turn?"

Mustang nodded weakly and collapsed on the other cot with a miserable groan. Breda would have taken some satisfaction from the sight if only he hadn't been feeling so bad himself. He lurched into the bathroom and proceeded to heave his insides into the toilet. Several times. By the time he was done he felt much better, if several pounds lighter, and crawled back into his own cot. Neither man spoke for several minutes, prisoners to their mutual suffering.

"I really lost, didn't I?" Breda grunted.

From across the room came a hoarse agreement. "Only just. I don't remember anything after you passed out so I must have been seconds behind you. If you hadn't gone down when you did…"

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" Breda muttered. "I can't believe I let a guy as skinny as you outlast me. There's no way Havoc is letting me forget this."

A snort of amusement was all the answer he got. Breda heaved a sigh, staring at the floor in defeat. "When I get back home, I'll talk to my superiors about transferring."

Mustang lifted his head. "You...you're honoring the bet?"

"What kind of man do you think I am?" Breda demanded. "Besides, it's not like I've got anything important waiting for me. I might as well just suck it up. But...you still owe me an explanation. Why do you really want me working for you?"

"I already told you..."

"I don't believe you. You don't nearly kill yourself with alcohol to recruit someone just because he  _happens_  to be a friend of your subordinate. I told you, respect goes both ways. So why don't you tell me the truth, Mustang?"

The silence reigned free for quite some time. More than once Mustang opened his mouth as if to say something only to shut it and glance away, uncertain. Then very slowly he moved so he was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands braced to either side. "You're right. You deserve to know who you'll be working for. But understand one thing, Lieutenant Breda. I'm only trusting you because Havoc trusts you."

Breda propped himself up on his elbows, struck by how deadly serious Mustang had become. A far cry from the jerk that stole girlfriends and dumped work on his underlings. In the predawn light he looked twice his years and far wiser than Breda would ever be.

"You already know my State-given name," Mustang murmured, his head hung low. "But there are only a select few that truly understand what that title means. I'm a dog of the military. I don't decide who my flames kill, the Fuhrer does. And years ago I made the mistake of allowing myself to be used as a tool. As...a weapon."

"You're talking about Ishval. I've heard the stories, and if even half of them are true..."

"They're  _all_  true. I may have stopped just short of burning infants in their cribs, but anyone older than four wasn't safe from me."

"Shit," Breda breathed. He had been stationed at the border during the conflict and his unit had been tasked with rounding up any fleeing Ishvalans and herding them into internment camps. He remembered women with half their faces seared off and sobbing kids with tattered clothing and third degree burns. At the time, it had horrified him. At least guns killed people quickly and cleanly without any need for suffering.

"I wish I could say I had no other choice," Mustang went on in a dead voice. "I had been ordered, but I could have run or just refused outright and ended up in front of a firing squad. Neither of those things occurred to me. I just did as I was told. And by the time it was all over, I swore to find a way to make sure it would never have to be like that again. To make sure no soldier had to feel like he had to choose between being a monster or a corpse."

"How the hell are you going to pull that one off?" Breda said skeptically. "There's not much one man can do, unless you're the Fuhrer or..."

"There is no  _or_. If I'm going to protect everyone in this country and prevent another genocide like Ishval, then there is only one path before me."

Breda stared at the man before him, shocked to the core at what could be considered a very treasonous statement. Mustang watched him, waiting for some kind of reaction to this mind-blowing news. But how exactly was he supposed to react? There were so many variables and so much danger tied into that single statement. Mustang could be planning anything from a slow climb to the top to a revolution to an assassination.

It was just a question of what kind of man he was.

And for that, Breda realized, he had only to look at Havoc. His buddy wasn't one to just mindlessly tag along with traitors. If he even got the faintest idea that Mustang was planning something unscrupulous, he would bail without a second thought.

"So why  _did_  you recruit Havoc?" Breda said evenly. "And me? How are  _we_ supposed to help you reach that goal?"

"A king can't do much on his own," Mustang explained. "But give him an entire army to work with, and anything is possible. I'll change this country from the top down, and to do that I need subordinates who also believe in the future I see. Both Havoc and Fuery are aware of my goal, though I made completely sure of their support before I revealed it to them. As for you..."

Mustang shrugged a little, lips quirking up. "Let's say I saw you as a weak point. If it was a choice between my life and yours, Havoc would turn on me without a second thought. I can't afford to overlook that or else my enemies might take advantage of it and snatch you up. You might call this a preemptive strike."

"You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"Not everything," Mustang said, his words heavy with misgiving. "I didn't expect you to put up this much of a fight. Nor do I know how you will act within the next few minutes. For all I know, you'll walk right up to the Fuhrer and whisper my goal in his ear. So what will it be, Lieutenant Breda?"

Well, Breda thought wryly, he  _had_  come for answers. And it looked like he had gotten them too. He lay there and stewed over everything Mustang had told him for several minutes, long enough for the sun to rise fully and light up the room. He had to admit that he was having a hard time looking beyond his initial impression of the man, but Breda would have been a fool to stick to his prejudice with the truth staring him in the face. Mustang was truly an idiot to bare all his secrets like this, and he couldn't help but admire the brutal honesty.

In the end, that was what decided him.

"Fuhrer, huh?"

Mustang nodded once. Only once. Breda chuckled hopelessly and rolled over, making himself as comfortable as possible to sleep off his hangover. "God help us."

"Does that mean...?"

"Yeah," Breda mumbled and shut his eyes. "You've earned yourself a second chance to gain my respect. Use it wisely."

From behind him came a deep, relieved sigh and Breda could swear he heard his new commander smiling. "I will. Oh, and about Lieutenant Hawkeye..."

"Relax, she's not my type. But  _God_ , you should have seen the look on your face. Possessive much?"

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

"And in denial too. For shame."


	4. Warrant Officer Vato Falman

Falman took deep breath and raised both arms slowly, taking careful aim. The gun was a foreign weight in his palms and the muzzle wavered back and forth however much he tried to hold it steady. He stuck the tip of his tongue out and fired bullet after bullet in quick succession. When his clip was empty, Falman peered through the haze and grimaced. Only three bullets had hit the target, and of those, only one was lethal. He lowered the gun and shot his instructor an apologetic look.

"Well," Hawkeye sighed, tugging out her earplugs. "You're still terrible, but at least you're trying."

"Not hard enough, it seems," Falman said ruefully. "Thanks for taking the time to help me with this. Again."

"Not at all," Hawkeye said with a smile. "When I saw the way you were mishandling your weapon last week...well, let's say I couldn't leave it alone."

"I can believe that," Falman admitted. It had been quite a shock the week before when the best sharpshooter in the military walked up to him on the shooting range and began to lecture him sharply on the proper way to handle his gun. But he had honestly welcomed the aid. Despite his age and time in the military, Falman had rarely seen combat. He preferred to do his part for Amestris from behind a desk, but there were still times when he felt a little lacking as a soldier. After all, a day could very well come when his comrades' lives depended, not on his mind, but on his steady aim and faltering courage. It hadn't come yet, but that didn't mean it never would.

"That's enough for today, I think," Hawkeye told him. "We need to get back to work."

"Yes, sir," Falman said as he put the safety on and holstered his gun. Together, they left the shooting range and made for the command center. They were halfway across the courtyard when someone shouted a greeting behind them. Falman looked around in surprise when a bespectacled man trotted up to them and, with no warning whatsoever, draped an arm around Hawkeye's shoulders.

"Riza Hawkeye, it's been way too long! How have you been?"

"Major Hughes?" Hawkeye said incredulously. "When did you get to East City?"

"Oh, just a little while ago," Hughes said, gesturing vaguely with the paper bag in his free hand. Hawkeye frowned at the sight of a champagne bottle poking out of the top, and Hughes chuckled. "Oh, don't give me that uptight look! It's  _non_ alcoholic, and yes, there  _is_ an occasion, which I'll tell you about once we find Roy. Who's this?"

"Oh, sorry sir," Falman said quickly and saluted. "Warrant Officer Falman. The lieutenant and I were just practicing on the shooting range..."

"Have I introduced you to my wife yet?"

"Uh..."

A photo of a woman with mousy brown hair was shoved under his nose. "Isn't she  _gorgeous?_ "

"I...suppose she is," Falman said dubiously.

"Would you like to see more?"

"Uh..."

"Hold this for me, Hawkeye," Hughes said and thrust the bag into her hands so he could whip out even more photos. Hawkeye gave Falman a commiserating look as the rant went on, which led Falman to conclude that this behavior was both perfectly normal and often repeated. The man didn't stop jabbering all the way to Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's office, and Falman only breathed easy when Hughes abandoned his tirade to barge into the office without knocking.

"Yo, Roy! It's about time I got out here to visit you! Hey, is this the new command? Not bad, not bad. They look somewhat competent."

Hawkeye swept into the door after Hughes. Falman took one look inside and decided he would be better off just walking away. All of Mustang's subordinates looked horrendously busy. They had pushed their desks together and buried the entire lot under dozens of boxes filled with reports that they were currently sorting through. The grueling process had them all slumped in their chairs with bad-tempered looks, and when they spoke their words were terse.

Mustang pinched the bridge of his nose, hardly glancing up from the report in his hand. "Hughes, what a surprise," he said without any surprise at all. He perked up when he saw the bag in Hawkeye's hands. "Please tell me that's got alcohol in it?"

"You wish," Hughes snickered. "Like your lieutenant would let me get away with that!"

Mustang set his report aside and eyed the bag thoughtfully. "Actually, that's probably got some sugar in it. Just a small transmutation to get the fermentation process going and maybe..."

"Please refrain from any alchemical experiments in the office, sir," Hawkeye said jadedly as she set the bag on the nearest flat surface. Falman blanched when Mustang's gaze switched over to him, and he made a fruitless try for freedom.

"Hold up!" Mustang called just as he reached the door. "Foreman, isn't it?"

"It's Falman, sir."

"Falman, then. Have you got time to help us with some cross-referencing?"

Falman looked at the daunting heaps of paper in dread. "Actually sir, I was just about to go to lunch..."

"It's not a request, Warrant Officer. Go give Fuery a hand."

"Very well, sir," Falman said with a half-hearted salute and pulled up a chair. Fuery handed him a stack of reports with a sympathetic shrug before diving back into the fray. "What's all this for?"

Mustang dropped into his own chair and heaved a stack closer. "This is every scrap of information the military has collected on civilian alchemists for the past twenty years. Both the well-known and the unknown. We're looking for a certain man who keeps slipping through our fingers. What was his name again, Havoc?"

"Hohenheim," Havoc replied, squinting at the faint pencil smudges on a decade-old report. "First name, Van. Pretty odd name if you ask me."

"Oh, him?" Hughes said, leaning over Mustang's shoulder to take a look. "I feel for you, my friend. This seems to happen about five times a year. Someone spots him, the higher-ups go into a frenzy and randomly assign someone to the case only to turn up with nothing until the next clue shows up."

"It's a nightmare, that's what it is," Mustang grumbled. "Based on our scant knowledge, he's a seventy-year-old vagabond with only average skills and no interest whatsoever in joining the military. I really wish the higher-ups would just admit it's a lost cause and focus on something  _useful_  for a change."

"So tell them that," Hughes goaded. "I'm sure that'd go over  _very_ well with the Fuhrer..."

"This can't be right," Fuery muttered. "It says here an alchemist of that description was spotted in Trenton on January third, 1905. But this one says he was in Rochester the very next day and they're three hundred miles apart!"

"May I?" Falman said and took the report. "Oh, I've seen this report. It was actually drafted in 1908, not 1905. The sergeant who wrote it had bad handwriting so when the original report got transcribed it was mistyped."

"Oh, I see now. Wait, let me write that down..."

"And I wouldn't trust the Trenton report either. I distinctly remember it saying the alchemist setting all those fires was captured and interrogated and, as it turned out, only a common arsonist."

"You've read all these reports recently?" Hawkeye asked hopefully.

"A bit, sir," Falman told her. "I've help others look through them whenever the Hohenheim case cropped up."

"Hughes, will you quit looking over my shoulder?"

"Well if you would just  _hand it over,_ " Hughes said in exasperation and swiped the papers out of Mustang's hands, flipping through them. "You know, I've worked on this case a time or two, and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. He's one pesky man to track down. Most alchemists don't tend to travel unless they're researching something specific so it could be that we're dealing with a simple scholar. Someone who spends all his time researching and lacks the skill to put his theories into practice, in which case it's the  _research_ the military wants and not necessarily the man..."

Breda peeked in the bag Hughes had brought curiously. "What's the occasion anyway?"

At once, Hughes shouted in dismay and flung all the papers into the air. A vein ticked in Mustang's forehead, and he motioned at Fuery to pick them up. "Really, Hughes, was that necessary?"

"I can't believe you made me forget all about it!" Hughes cried. He snatched the bottle free from the bag and jumped onto a chair, holding it aloft like a victory torch. "Ladies and gentlemen, I have splendid news! The greatest you'll ever hear for months, possibly even years! My lovely wife, Gracia—wait, I've shown you all a picture, right?"

Everyone was quick to assure him that he had, and Hughes went on with bluster. "As I was saying, Gracia and I are delighted to inform the world that we are now parents! We're going to have a baby!"

"Oh, that's wonderful!" Falman said gladly.

"Yes, congratulations," Hawkeye said, smiling.

"Good going, man!" Breda whooped.

"It was only a matter of time," Havoc chuckled, nudging a beaming Fuery. "In fact, we had bets going so this had better be the real thing."

"It is!" Hughes said in elation. "Gracia is absolutely, one hundred percent pregnant!"

Mustang cleared his throat smugly. "With my child," he drawled.

Hughes froze, his grin becoming just the slightest bit manic. Mustang's subordinates lapsed into stunned silence, and Falman gulped, wondering just what kind of dangerous soap opera he had walked in on. Hawkeye was the only one to shake her head and continue working. "He's joking, Hughes."

"So you say," Hughes said abruptly, dropping off the chair. "But you never know what these freaky alchemists are capable of."

"Oh, give it a rest," Mustang sighed and passed a stack of folders to Breda. "You were asking for it. Barging in here and interrupting our work just to brag about your virility..."

"You could have been planning this for months!" Hughes cut in with a dramatically pointed finger. "All those times I spoke to you on the phone and you were just  _scheming_ for the opportune moment—!"

"Why would I go  _all the way_ to Central just to knock up your wife and then come all the way back here like nothing happened?"

"And how do  _I_ know it was only the one time?  _Oh no!_  You coerced my wife into having an  _affair?_ "

"Are they always like this?" Falman asked Breda.

"Pretty much," Breda replied. He pursed his lips as he read the report aloud. "Let's see, this looks promising. 'An alchemist with blond hair reported to have helped a small village rebuild after an earthquake.' According to this, he single-handedly constructed a new bridge for the citizens to receive supplies."

"That was in Burroughs in March of 1909," Falman rattled off automatically. "It's valid. The description matches, and the civilians had no reason to lie about someone who helped them that much. After that, the next sighting was in a small town to the west."

"The west, the west," Havoc muttered, chewing on his unlit cigarette. "I just had that report in my hand! Where'd it go?"

"Now Roy, it's not that I don't understand your feelings. Gracia is a stunning woman, but don't you understand that such an illicit attraction could potentially destroy our friendship and wreck a pure woman's heart?"

"I haven't left East City for months! Hawkeye, will you vouch for me here?"

"Actually sir, there  _are_ several periods of unexplained absences I've been wondering about."

"I was sick those days!"

"If by 'sick' you mean 'pretending', then yes, I can vouch for you."

Havoc popped a lid off one of the boxes. "Aha, I found it!" he said in triumph.

"It won't help much, the report was pretty vague," Falman said, causing Havoc to droop. "But later on, he apparently took a train across the border and wasn't seen again until a few months ago. Look for the report on Galla in January 1910."

At once, everyone began sorting through the boxes. Falman helped a bit, but he was much more fascinated by the transformation wrought in the lieutenant colonel by Hughes' mere presence. Mustang was normally so collected, easily brushing off what other people said about him with detached amusement. But now his teeth were grinding and his eyes flashing as he strove to defend himself against an increasingly ridiculous accusation. It was quite a sight to see.

"Hughes,  _believe me_. I have no interest in your wife whatsoever!"

" _Whaaat?_  That's even worse than saying you're having an affair with her!"

" _How is that worse?_ "

"I found it," Hawkeye announced, rising from her seat. "Okay, we have a start, but we need a more systematic reproach if we're going to get any further. If we could just find some kind of correlation in his movements..."

"There isn't any, as far as I can see," Falman said, dragging his mind back to the task at hand. "He only came to the military's attention in 1903 and has since been spotted on average four to five times a year. He seems to travel constantly, but what I find most interesting is that he tends to stay near the country's borders and only rarely ventures to the interior..."

Falman trailed off when he realized Hughes had finally stopped antagonizing Mustang and was now giving him a rather strange look. He tried to ignore it, but being under the unflinching scrutiny of those hazel eyes was unnerving then their owner wasn't talking. Or blinking.

"You wouldn't happen to be an alchemist yourself?" Hughes inquired politely.

"No, not at all," Falman replied. "I'm just a warrant officer."

"Hm," Hughes mused, still not blinking. "In any case, you must be very interested in the Hohenheim case to remember so much on the fly."

Falman shifted in his seat uncomfortably. "It's just the way I am, sir."

Havoc laughed. "That's a hell of an understatement. Falman's got a brain like a filing cabinet. He remembers  _everything._  Every single little thing."

"Now, that's not really..."

"Oh, but it is," Havoc insisted. "Remember when I tried to cut back on my smoking, guys? Without even trying he kept track of the number I had each day and at what times and told me off if I started to slack. Got so bad that I ended up smoking even  _more_."

Hughes whistled. "That's pretty impressive, Warrant Officer."

Falman resisted the urge to groan with difficulty. An excellent memory was all well and good, but a near  _perfect_  memory could be more of a burden than anything else. He often annoyed or unnerved people with the sheer amount of information his mind was capable of hanging on to. It was a curse, plain and simple.

Mustang leaned around Hughes to set some more reports in Falman's reach. "Now that you're satisfied, would you mind letting us get back to—"

" _Roy!_ " Hughes admonished, whisking the files away faster than Falman could blink. "Are you telling me you've got a mind like  _this_  at your disposal and you're wasting it away on moldy old cases that nobody cares about? Shame on you!"

"What do you mean?" Mustang said, nonplussed. "What else would I have him doing?"

"Something more practical than  _this,_ " Hughes scoffed. "Investigations, for example. They could put him to work researching unsolvable cases and analyzing criminal minds. The kind of talent Falman has demonstrated here would be  _invaluable_  in Central!"

"I-Investigations?" Falman blurted out. "Central? I could be working in  _Central?_ "

Hughes wagged a finger at him, beaming. "Absolutely! Oh, didn't I tell you? I work in Investigations. My superiors are constantly looking for candidates with detailed and accurate memories. People who can connect the dots without having to look up every single little thing. In fact...I bet if I pulled a few strings, I could get you an interview. Just repeat this performance for my superiors, maybe help us crack a case or two, and you won't even need my help to slip right in. Who knows, you just might make a career of it!"

"Now hold on a minute!" Mustang demanded. "Falman already has a place here in East City. Just where do you get off...?"

"Is Warrant Officer Falman working in your direct command?"

"As a matter of fact—"

"Actually," Hawkeye said, looking quite taken aback. "Lieutenant General Grumman suggested that Falman's insight could be of use and put him on a trial period under the lieutenant colonel. Strictly speaking...he's not working for anyone at the moment."

"Perfect!" Hughes exclaimed. He clapped an astonished Falman on the shoulder. "Well Roy, I suggest you start looking for a new warrant officer because this one is mine. Let's go, Falman! We'll have lunch and chat about the opportunities that await you in Central."

"But Hughes—!"

Hughes ignored him as he steered his new acquisition out the door. It was all Falman could do to keep up with the major's long stride, hardly noticing the way everyone stared at their retreating backs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fuery turned to a flabbergasted Mustang. "Um...does this mean he's not free to help us with this case anymore?"

* * *

Falman returned from lunch in a daze, his overly analytical head spinning. If someone had told him this morning that some strange man would waltz in the door and offer him a job at the Investigations Bureau in Central, he would have told them that the odds of that happening were so slim that there was no way calculate it accurately. But it had happened, and suddenly a future in East City seemed bleaker than ever now that Hughes had informed him of all the things he  _could_ be doing. He, Warrant Officer Falman, could help solve cases that had been plaguing the State for years! It was important, meaningful work, and he was already itching to get his hands on it. Hell, in five or ten years he could potentially advance far enough in the ranks and head any one of the departments stationed in Central. Maybe even Investigations!

Still, it was probably best not to get too ahead of himself. Hughes had urged him to take some time to think it over while he phoned up his superiors. Not that there was much to think over. Falman had already worked out the pros and cons on the fifteen minute walk back to headquarters and the odds were strongly in favor of Central. He had nothing tying him to East City except an elderly aunt and uncle, and he was sure they would give him their blessing. If everything worked out, he could be in Central in under a week.

Whistling cheerfully, Falman entered the command center and was nearly swept away by the lunch crowd. He tried in vain to fight the tide, but it was difficult to move without jostling into someone, and he didn't want to be rude and just shove his way through. Then without warning he felt a hand seize his arm. "Falman,  _buddy!_ "

Falman blinked at Breda without comprehension. "Buddy?" he repeated. No one had  _ever_ called him that.

"Just the guy we've been looking for!" Havoc said with gusto on his other side and assisted Breda in maneuvering him toward the mess. The double doors were wide open and the reek of processed meat and stale cheese made Falman gag. The lieutenants dumped him at the nearest empty table, and Havoc leaned over him, grinning widely. "You know, Falman. We've all been working together for a couple of months now, and it's about time we stopped being strangers. We decided this would be a good day for us to all sit down to lunch and  _really_  get to know each other, what do you say?"

"But...I just ate lunch," Falman said lamely, flummoxed.

"Oh, don't give us that," Breda said heartily, pounding his back so hard that he nearly fell out of his chair. "You're too skinny as is. A man's gotta eat! Fuery, you need a hand with that?"

"I've got it!" Fuery squeaked from behind a precarious stack of trays. Four of them. One was offered to him, and Falman gave the sandwich and hearty stew it contained a dubious look. He was not in the least bit hungry, but if they had gone to the effort then it seemed prudent to at least have a few bites. He sampled the stew while Fuery took the seat directly across from him and Havoc and Breda sat on either side, effectively hemming him in. The silence stretched.

"Sooo," Havoc said slowly. "How long have you lived in East City?"

It took a moment for Falman to realize Havoc was talking to him. "Oh, I grew up here. My aunt and uncle raised me."

"No siblings or anything?" Havoc inquired, and chuckled when Falman shook his head. "Damn, you got lucky. I'm the oldest, and I think my parents were going for some kind of record when they had the other five. I was glad to get out of there when I could, though I think my mother would have preferred if I stayed a simple country boy instead of becoming a soldier. Was it the same for you when you joined up?"

"Not really," Falman replied. "My aunt is ill often, and the medical bills are expensive. They pushed me to join the military so that my future would be assured and they could take advantage of the benefits."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Oh, I don't mind," Falman said quickly. "I love them both, and the military seems to have been a good path for me. And if I can get this transfer to Central, I'm sure I could help pay off their remaining debt and let them retire."

It was a good thing he looked up when he said that or else he would have missed the oddly guilty looks being passed around the table. Falman looked from one man to another, and his heart sank as a niggling suspicion formed in the back of his mind. He tried to push the depressing thought away, but as always his logical mind overruled all else and pointed out the evidence stacking up.

"You didn't really ask me to lunch because you want to get to know me, did you?" Falman said forlornly.

"No!" Fuery blurted out and yelped when Breda kicked him under the table. "I mean,  _yes!_  Of  _course_  want to get to know you!"

"Until now, none of you have said more than two words to me outside the office," Falman went on with some vehemence. "And I don't think it's coincidence that you  _happen_ to take an interest just after Major Hughes offers me a position that would take me away from Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's command."

"What are you accusing us of?" Breda said loudly, slapping the table. "You really think we'd go through all this just because Mustang told us to? We've got more dignity than that!"

"Is that so?" Falman said icily. "Then I don't think it's too much to ask that you respect my wishes to remain simple acquaintances with all of you. I have already accepted Major Hughes' offer and will be leaving East City within the month."

The three exchanged panicked looks, and that was absolutely the last straw. Falman abandoned his tray and marched away, dashing between the tables to evade Mustang's subordinates. They caught up to him at the doors, and Breda planted his girth on the threshold, refusing to let him by. Falman turned around and came face to face with Havoc's strained look and Fuery's puppy dog eyes.

"You don't know what you're getting into with Hughes as your boss," Havoc insisted. "You really want to be stuck in an office all day with that guy and all his idiosyncrasies? Trust me, it's not worth it."

"Just give us a chance!" Fuery implored. "We only want what's best for you, honest!"

Falman pinched the bridge of his nose. They really did sound quite desperate, and some part of him hated to disappoint them. But this transfer to Central could possibly be the greatest career move of his life, and he wasn't about to do anything to put that in jeopardy. If he could just verify they truly were becoming his friends under false pretenses...

"Very well," Falman said carefully. "I'll give you a chance..."

"Alright!"

"... _if_ you can tell me my first name."

As one, they opened their mouths...and just as quickly closed them, looking quite alarmed that none of their comrades had the answer either. Falman pushed past Breda. "That's what I thought."

"Wait, you can't blame us for not knowing that!" Breda yelled after him. "Have you ever even  _told_  us your first name?"

"It starts with a V, doesn't it?" Fuery called. "It's something like...like Veto? Or Vinyl?"

"Vegan!" Havoc shouted. "It's Vegan, isn't it? Tell me I'm right!"

"Good _bye!_ " Falman roared over his shoulder.

"No, come back! We'll get it if you just give us a minute!"

"What about Vulcan? I'm at least getting close, aren't I?"

"Don't go, Velcro!"

* * *

Thankfully, it didn't take Hughes long to get the interview set up and arrange transportation to Central for them both. Trying to avoid Mustang's subordinates during his working hours proved to be most difficult. Falman was fed up with taking detours through back corridors and stairwells and having to duck out of sight anytime he saw them. An unexpected line of attack came when Mustang somehow got in contact with his aunt and uncle and attempted to convince them to change Falman's mind. Luckily for Falman, his relatives were stout people and firmly in favor of Falman seeking out his opportunities in Central. And anytime Mustang attempted to speak with him alone, Hughes would magically appear and rescue him. Those few times Falman saw the two men together, they conversed civilly but without the casual ease they had possessed when Hughes first arrived, and the silent looks they gave each other were utterly cold. Falman began to worry this whole thing had gotten blown way out of proportion and irreparably harmed their friendship.

He didn't get a chance to express his doubts until he and Hughes were boarding an early morning train bound for Central, and when Falman suggested that perhaps staying in East City would be for the best, the major rounded on him with a fanatical gleam in his eye.

"If you stay here, that would mean he's won!" Hughes exclaimed, and Falman was left to wonder just what  _that_  meant. The train ride was spent uncomfortably as Hughes felt the need to tell him all about Central, somehow managing to incorporate his wife and their unborn child in the conversation on average five times for every three minutes. Falman counted. He began to get a strange foreboding that perhaps Lieutenant Havoc had known what he was talking about when it came to Hughes and his idiosyncrasies.

Since Hughes had arranged for a nonstop trip, they arrived in Central close to midnight. Falman barely remembered being ushered into a cab with his suitcase and only woke long enough for Hughes to lead him to his room in the barracks. Falman ended the exhausting day by falling into bed fully clothed, even lacking the energy to untie his shoes.

The next morning found him in a state of bleary-eyed confusion, wondering where on earth he was and why he could see Central Command from his window. Reality came crashing down and he scrambled out of bed in a rush, elated. He was in Central! Falman hurried through a shower and donned a fresh uniform, neatly combing his hair in anticipation of the day ahead. Hughes arrived just as he was ready and took him to the court martial office, the heart of Investigations. The morning passed in a haze of coffee and paperwork and unfamiliar faces. Hughes' superiors had seemed a little disappointed at first—no doubt they had expected someone younger and more malleable. But when Falman demonstrated his memory, they were just as keyed-up as the major.

While they retreated into their offices to discuss Falman's fate, Hughes took him on a grand tour of Central Headquarters while Falman gaped at the imposing building where the Fuhrer lived and worked. It was only a few blocks away!

"Quite a sight, isn't it?" Hughes said proudly as they hiked up a flight of stairs to a less militaristic structure. "This here is the First Branch of the Central Library where we store a lot of our case files. There's a State-run laboratory nearby so this branch has sort of become a hub for the State Alchemists where they can have references in easy reach. You might see some famous faces here."

"I don't doubt it," Falman said weakly and eagerly followed Hughes through the ornate double doors. Here, the hustle and bustle of Central faded back into a quiet hush, and Falman breathed a sigh of relief. It would take him awhile to get used to a city this large and this  _busy_. Even East City couldn't compare.

"Gloria, how's it going?" Hughes greeted a gray-haired woman behind the desk. "This is Warrant Officer Falman. He's applying for a position in Investigations. I expect you'll be seeing a lot of him."

Gloria looked up from the index cards she was organizing, and steely blue eyes studied Falman. He straightened his shoulders and struggled not to shrink back under her strict glare. "W-Well, I haven't gotten the job  _quite_ yet..."

"Oh, don't be so down!" Hughes exclaimed. "I'm telling you, it's in the bag! The rest is just formalities."

"Yes, you've always been quite adept at getting your way, Major Hughes," Gloria said in a disapproving tone that made Hughes narrow his eyes. "Especially when it comes to obtaining favors for all your little  _friends_."

She scooped up some index cards and moved off to return them to their drawer. While she was looking the other way, Hughes winked at Falman as if letting him in on a carefully guarded secret. "Watch closely. Lesson one—extracting information."

When Gloria returned, Hughes faced her, speaking in that same friendly and unrelenting tone he had used when abducting Falman. "Speaking of  _friends_ , Gloria, I was wondering if you might help me out again. My  _friend_  had been ordered to conduct some research into the Hohenheim case, and he could be on the verge of a major breakthrough."

"You know those records are restricted to authorized individuals. I can't allow you to just—"

"So, you know, I just thought I'd save him the trouble of having to send someone here to retrieve them," Hughes cajoled with a winning smile. "You see, he's  _all the way_ in East City, and it would reflect  _so_ very well on him if he manages to crack the case..."

"You're wasting your time, Major," Gloria said severely. "Perhaps the other librarians are more open to your _...charm_ , but I'm afraid I can't help you until I have written authorization from your superiors. Who, I'm sure, would be  _very_ interested to know why you're digging up information on a case so far outside your jurisdiction."

Just then there came a series of loud crashes that startled Falman and caused the other librarians behind the desk to raise their heads. A faint wail emanated from the forest of shelves. " _H-Help me...!_ "

"Oh dear," Gloria muttered, not looking in the least bit perturbed. She pushed her glasses further up her nose and motioned at the two soldiers. "Will one of you go help that girl? It sounds like she made quite a mess this time."

Hughes turned to Falman and gave him a slight nudge. "Falman, go take care of that, will you?"

"Uh...okay," Falman said uncertainly and left Hughes and Gloria to meander deeper into the library. Back here the noises from the street and the other librarians were muffled and each aisle he came across was devoid of people. Another frightened cry drew him into toward the reference section and here he found signs of recent chaos. A cart full of books had been overturned, its contents spilled all over the floor, and a ladder lay on its side. Falman jumped when a book fell right past his head and smacked the floor loudly.

"Help!" someone cried above him. A woman had somehow ended up on top of a high bookcase, gripping the edges so hard that her knuckles were white. She cast a pleading look at Falman through thick glasses and let out a terrified moan. "I'm stuck!"

"How on earth did you get up there?" Falman said in alarm.

"I was putting some books away and spotted one in the wrong place," the woman sobbed, practically babbling. "I tried to reach it and leaned over too far and the ladder started to fall! I was so scared I just grabbed onto the bookshelf and ended up here.  _Please_  get me down! I can't  _stand_  heights!"

"Y-You'll be okay, I'll get you down!" Falman exclaimed. He bent quickly to retrieve the ladder and placed it against the bookcase, climbing slowly. Once at the top he surveyed the situation in apprehension. The woman seemed far too frightened to move, let alone reach for the ladder, and it wasn't like he could carry her down. He was no fireman. Somehow, he had to convince her to climb down with him.

Falman touched her ankle to get her attention, and she squeaked in surprise but refused to open her eyes. "The ladder's right behind you, Miss. Just scoot back a little and try to get your feet on it, and we'll go from there. Can you do that?"

"I-I don't know. W-What if I fall? I'll die for sure!"

"I'm sure you wouldn't die from this height," Falman assured her, and then amended. "Well, maybe a broken bone or two..."

She whimpered, shaking like a leaf. Clearly, that had been the wrong thing to say. Falman searched the nearby area for help, but they were quite alone. He was on his own. Biting his lip, he inched closer. "You can make it, Miss. It's not that far, and even if you slip, I'll be right here to catch you. Okay?"

The woman turned tearful eyes on him, sniffed and began to shuffle backward. Falman tried hard not to flush when a small, plump butt was nearly thrust in his face and put a hand on her waist to steady her. "Easy, now. You're right at the edge."

Under his guidance, the woman felt around with her toes. Falman breathed easier once she got both feet on the rung and found her balance. She dared to open her eyes, looking back at him shyly. "T-Thank you so much! I t-think I can climb down now."

"Oh, of course!" Falman said and began to descend, but he halted when the woman cried out.

"The book! I can see it, we're closer! I might be able to reach it..."

Falman looked up just as she began to reach for a thick, leather-bound volume just beyond her short reach. "Wait Miss, perhaps you should leave it for now—!"

But it was too late. Falman's weight shifted just a little too far and the ladder slewed sideways, pitching them both into the air. Falman hit the floor on his back and all the air whooshed from his lungs when the shrieking woman landed on top of him, straddling him. In that split second Falman saw the ladder falling toward them and rolled them both out of its way just in time. He ended up crouched over the woman on all fours while the ladder crashed beside them, followed by the book she had been trying to reach.

They just lay there for a long moment as Falman waited for his hands to stop shaking. Luckily, he was only a little battered and nothing was broken. The woman blinked up at him, her eyes glassy, and Falman feared for a moment that she had been hurt. But then she flung her arms around his neck and squeezed him tight, suffocating him against her musty sweater. "You saved me again! I can't thank you enough—!"

"It was nothing!" Falman choked. "Really, you don't need to—"

"Well, well..."

As one, they turned their heads. Hughes was leaning against the bookshelf with his arms crossed and eyes dancing merrily. Gloria peered around his shoulder, looking quite appalled. " _Sheska!_  This is  _not_ suitable behavior!"

Slowly, Falman and the woman called Sheska looked at their current position. Namely the fact that Falman was still practically pinning her down and she still had her arms around his neck with her legs sprawled on either side of his hips and her skirt riding up just the tiniest bit...

They both moved at the same time, scrambling away until their backs pressed into opposite bookcases. Sheska yanked her skirt down and Falman jumped to his feet in a stiff salute, both stammering out explanations as equally fierce blushes overcame them.

"It's not what it looks like at all, Miss Gloria, I swear—!"

"I was only trying to help, sir! On my honor, I'd never—!"

"If he hadn't come along, I'd be dead now!  _Dead!_ "

"It's my own fault, really, I should have been more careful—!"

"Sheska, I'm afraid this goes too far," Gloria said furiously. "You're suspended for two months!"

"Oh no!" Sheska wailed. "But I need the money, Miss Gloria! For my mother!"

"Now, is that really necessary?" Hughes said gently. "It was an honest mistake, give the poor girl a break."

Gloria appraised them both, particularly Falman, in suspicion. "Very well," she said at last. "Your suspension is reduced to two weeks. And when you return, I expect you to conduct yourself with the professionalism expected of our employees."

Sheska nodded timidly. "Thank you, Miss Gloria,  _thank_ you. I'll try my very best!"

"And clean all that up before you go home!" Gloria snapped and marched away primly, ignoring Hughes' knowing grin. The major waved Falman out of the aisle as Sheska miserably began to collect the scattered books.

"Listen, some business came up and I've got to head back to the court martial office," Hughes explained quietly. "You can go ahead and take the rest of the day off, and I'll have someone from the office give you a call tomorrow."

"Very well, sir," Falman said as his eyes strayed to the sniffling Sheska. "I'll probably head back to the dorms for the night."

" _After_  you help that young lady clean up," Hughes said firmly. "It  _is_ partly your fault, after all."

"Yes, sir," Falman admitted.

Hughes glanced at Sheska one last time and dropped him another wink. "A little young for you, but she might do."

" _W-What?_ " Falman sputtered, but the major was already walking away without a backward look. Feeling distinctly hot around the collar, Falman knelt and began stacking books in his hand, unable to stop himself from watching Sheska out of the corner of his eye. He hadn't really been paying attention before, what with them nearly being seriously injured, but he supposed she  _was_ rather pretty despite the frazzled hair and owlish glasses. As for her age...

Falman averted his gaze regretfully. She looked quite young still, probably in her twenties, and he doubted she would look twice at a man like him. Not that Falman was  _old_ , per se. At least  _he_ didn't consider thirty-seven to be old. It certainly wasn't his fault that his hair had started going gray in his early twenties or that his sensitive skin made him prone to wrinkles, but far too often women took one look and pegged him as a man in his fifties. Fifties!

Sheska carefully set her armful of books aside and stood, reaching for the tipped cart. Then she caught sight of Falman and hesitated. "You're...still here?"

"Well, yes," Falman replied. "I just thought I'd help you out."

"Oh, but you don't need to do that!" Sheska stammered. "I-I mean, you had nothing to do with what happened!"

"But I'm the reason you got suspended!" Falman insisted. "It's the least I could do."

"But it was my clumsiness that got us into that position—"

She cut herself off and turned away, blushing deeply. Falman ducked his head awkwardly to hide his own embarrassment and carefully turned the cart the right way up. "F-Funny that they thought that, though," he said shakily, trying to lighten the mood. "I mean considering..."

"Considering?" Sheska said uncertainly, not seeming to follow.

"Well," Falman faltered, waving his hand vaguely. "I mean since you're...we wouldn't make much of a couple, would we?"

If possible, Sheska colored even further. "Oh, yes. What with you being a soldier and all, and I'm only a librarian..."

"Huh?" Falman said in confusion. "That's not what I meant at all! I just meant with me being so much older than you."

"Oh?" Sheska said curiously. "Um...how old  _are_ you then?"

"Thirty-seven."

Sheska stared at him for a long moment, her mouth forming a small "O".

"What is it?"

"I'm," Sheska said breathlessly, "I'm thirty-three."

"Thirty-three?" Falman repeated, dumbfounded. "Really? But you look so...I could have sworn..."

Sheska gave a nervous little giggle and quickly stifled it with her hands. But she watched Falman over her fingers, and his heart jolted in panicked exhilaration at the spark of... _something_  in her eyes. He gulped, his mind scrambling for something to say that would properly show his interest without offending her. Although decorum had pretty much been thrown out the window moments ago, but perhaps it wasn't too late to start over...

Yes, starting over sounded good.

"Let's start over," Falman managed to say. He held out his hand. "I'm Falman...uh, Vato Falman, that is. And would you be entirely opposed to having dinner with me, Miss Sheska?"

"D-Dinner?" Sheska croaked, still holding her burning face and looking as though she might swoon. "A soldier is asking  _m-me_  to dinner...?"

"If it makes you feel better, I'm only a warrant officer."

* * *

"Miss Sheska, are you  _sure_ the recipe calls for paprika?"

"Oh, yes! I read it at least twice. I know it seems unusual, but it  _is_ an Aerugean recipe...oh, the tea water is boiling!"

Falman took advantage of her distraction with the kettle to lean over and brush some flour off the worn pages of  _Tim Marcoh's One-Thousand Easy Recipes_. The handwritten notes were quite clear.  _"An unconventional addition, to be sure, however the paprika's heat will infuse well with the dough under high temperatures as well as producing a far brighter and more lustrous hue in the final product."_

Falman shrugged to himself and tossed some paprika into the mixing bowl with the cherries and a few other components. He poured his mixture into a waiting pie pan lined with crust and then covered it with a second layer of dough before popping it in the oven. He wiped his hands with the apron tied around his waist, surveying the mess they had made of Sheska's cramped kitchen. To be honest, this was turning out far better than he'd thought. Since Falman didn't know much about Central's restaurants and each of them needed to save money for varying reasons, it had been Sheska's idea to cook dinner at her house rather than going out. As it turned out the book she had been trying to reach in the library was a cookbook, and Sheska had seemed so eager to try her hand at being a chef that Falman had seen no reason to discourage her.

Besides, Falman thought wryly, he was enjoying himself too. In a haphazard sort of way.

Sheska hummed to herself as she chopped up some green onions for the stir-fry, looking entirely too cute in an apron and with her short hair pulled back neatly. She took a peek at the cookbook and turned to her spice cabinet with a small frown. "Hm, I'm not even sure if I  _have_ basil. Do you think cilantro would work as a substitute?"

"I think oregano would be a better choice," Falman said, squinting at the labels on the bottles of dried herbs. "Considering both are of the  _Lamiaceae_  or mint family. Perhaps rosemary or thyme would also do, if you have those."

"Thyme, thyme," Sheska murmured, and then she shrieked. "I forgot to put the timer on for the sauce!"

Some scrambling ensued as they both hurried to rescue the smoking pot. Falman stuck a wooden spoon in the goopy sauce and pulled a face. "Well...maybe it will still taste good?"

"I hope so," Sheska fretted. She sank onto a spindly chair and rested her elbows on the counter. "I'm sorry, I'm  _hopeless_ when it comes to cooking. I've read  _dozens_  of cookbooks, but when it comes to putting the theory into practice..."

Falman poured tea for the two of them and also took a seat with a commiserating smile. "I know exactly what you mean. As a soldier, I know just about everything there is to know about military procedures and combat tactics, but out in the field I still end up making rookie mistakes. That's why I've only ever been good behind a desk."

"Is that the kind of job you're applying for here in Central?" Sheska asked, cradling her tea with both hands.

"That's what I'm hoping for," Falman replied. "But I'm beginning to think I got in a little over my head. You see, I only met Major Hughes a few days ago, and he made the decision to recommend me on the fly. And  _that_  was only based on a specific skill of mine."

"What skill is that?"

"It's kind of silly," Falman admitted. "Just a natural ability that I never thought would be good for anything."

"But that's still good!" Sheska said with fervor. "It's wonderful that you have a talent that can actually be  _useful_ for something. I wish I could say the same."

"Come on, there must be something you're good at," Falman insisted. He waved his hand at the kitchen door, indicating the paper jungle just outside. "What about all those books you have?"

Sheska only shook her head sadly. "There aren't many jobs available for someone whose only skill is reading, and it's even worse when I tell them about my memory. Then they just look at me like I sprouted two heads or something."

Falman nearly choked on his tea and cleared his throat. "Ah...what were you saying about your memory?"

"I have a photographic memory," Sheska said matter-of-factly, not seeming to notice when Falman's jaw dropped. "I read through something once and I remember everything, word for word. I never thought it was a big deal, but apparently it's pretty unusual. I've never met anyone else with a memory like that."

 _Me either,_  Falman thought giddily. And suddenly he had to find out if it was true, if he wasn't the only one in the world with this curse. He tugged the cookbook closer, looking at her anxiously. "Could you...would you mind proving it to me? You said  _everything_  so I assume that goes for cookbooks too?"

"Oh, sure," Sheska said, perking up. She set her mug down and folded her hands on the counter, surprising him with her eagerness. "Which recipe would you like me to remember?"

"Any," Falman answered, and with that word she was off. Sheska rattled off the prologue of the book as well as the next ten recipes with the same ease as Falman when he recalled military codes of conduct and details of ancient case records. She was word for word accurate, just as she had said, listing ingredients, measurements, techniques, descriptions and step-by-step instructions without pause until Falman was flipping pages to keep up. By the time Sheska finished, he could only stare at her in a daze of shock and wonder.

"Vato?" Sheska said worriedly. "Are you feeling well?"

Falman nodded stupidly, all rational thought blown from his head.  _I...think I'm in love._

The phone rang and Sheska went to answer it, still watching him in concern. "Hello? Oh...oh, Major Hughes! Yes sir, he's right here."

Falman shook off his stupor and took the receiver from her. "Hello?"

" _About time I found you,_ " Hughes said in amusement. " _I see you don't need any help with lesson two—gaining trust to gain access to otherwise restricted areas._ "

"Oh no, sir! It's not like that—!"

" _I'm sure it isn't,_ " Hughes said, the humor fading from his voice. " _Listen, I hate to interrupt your night, but you need to come to the court martial office right now. We have...a slight issue._ "

That "slight" issue came in the form of General Grumman and Lieutenant Colonel Mustang. How they had gotten to Central so fast, Falman couldn't even begin to guess, but both of them were waiting in the private office where Hughes led him. Grumman had taken a seat behind the only available desk like it was his very own office while Mustang stood off to the side and looked rather uncomfortable with the proceedings.

"You son of a bitch," Hughes muttered as they walked past Mustang.

"I didn't ask for this," Mustang retorted under his breath. "I don't know how the general found out, but  _he's_  the one who decided this was necessary."

"Ah...decided  _what_ was necessary, sir?" Falman asked apprehensively when they stood before Grumman.

"Why, your return to East City, of course," Grumman said, and Falman's heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. "Warrant Officer, I recall placing you in Mustang's command hoping that your particular skills would no longer go unappreciated. I had  _thought_ Mustang here would value what a fine officer I'd planted in his hands, and then I learn from Lieutenant Hawkeye that he allowed you to slip away without putting up even an inkling of resistance."

Mustang bristled. "Sir, I did no such thing! There was nothing I could do to stop Hughes!"

"Coulda lit his ass on fire, couldn't you?" Grumman said frankly. "Mustang, my boy, I honestly thought you were better than this, but letting someone steal a subordinate right out from under your nose..."

" _Steal_  him?" Hughes said in affront. "Try  _rescuing_  him from Roy's neglectful ways! General, Falman could do some real good here. He  _belongs_ in Investigations. It's what a mind like his was born to do!"

Grumman rose from his chair, donning his coat. "I'm afraid it's not your decision to make, Major Hughes. And as I was forced to make a rather hasty trip all the way here to sort out this mess, I think it's safe to say I won't be leaving empty-handed. Tomorrow morning, Falman will return to East City with Mustang and myself where he will officially become a part of the lieutenant colonel's command."

"Y-Yes, sir," Falman said faintly.

"And Mustang," Grumman said slyly. "I daresay from now on you'll keep a better tab on your subordinates?"

"Yes, sir," Mustang said, equally subdued as he followed Grumman out. He glanced at Hughes on his way to the door, giving a helpless sort of shrug, and Hughes waved him off with a rueful smile.

"Sorry about this, Falman," Hughes said finally, scratching his head. "I know how much you were looking forward to a new career here in Central."

Falman only hung his head, the lost job opportunity the last thing on his mind.

* * *

"But...but you were hardly even here for a  _day,_ " Sheska said for the third time.

"I know," Falman said with a quiet sigh at the misery in her voice. The train was straight ahead, but for now he lingered on the platform in the predawn light, just soaking up these last moments in Central. With Sheska. She looked ready to start crying any given moment, and Falman gave her shoulder a quick squeeze. "I wish I could stay, but there's not much I can do at this point. Not when General Grumman has ordered me back."

Sheska nodded glumly, hugging a small box to her chest before offering it to him. "Here. It's that pie you made. I want you to have it."

"But I made that for both of us, Miss Sheska," Falman said as he cradled the box in one hand awkwardly, his other hand being occupied with his suitcase.

Sheska shuffled her feet guiltily. "Well, I actually already cut out a slice and left it in my icebox at home. But—but the rest is still intact!"

"Don't worry, I believe you," Falman chuckled. He saw the ticket master waving at him impatiently and sighed. "I really do have to get going now. But I'll write, I promise. And I'll come visit too, if...if that's alright with you, Miss Sheska."

"Of course it is!" Sheska said at once, wringing her hands. "And...and one more thing, before you go..."

Before he knew what was happening, Sheska rushed forward and planted a kiss on his cheek, standing on her toes to hug him tight. Heat flooded Falman's face in a very pleasant way, and he wished his arms weren't so full so he could embrace her back. All he could do was bury his face in her shoulder and strive to remember the unique scent of paper and dust and a hint of that spicy tea Sheska liked. But then she was gone, hurrying away as if she couldn't bear to watch him go. Falman was left to board the train with a heavy heart, hardly noticing that the car he had chosen was so packed that the only free seat left was directly across from Mustang. He stowed his luggage and sank down heavily with the pie in his lap.

"Nice woman you have there."

It took Falman a moment to realize Mustang had spoken. "She's not really...I mean, we're not exactly..."

Mustang smirked at him, and Falman's shoulders drooped in defeat. "Well, I had hoped..."

The train whistled one last time and began to inch forward, the first steps of a long journey. Mustang sighed as he watched the gray buildings flick by. "This probably won't mean much to you now, but I would have let you go. You would have done well under Hughes' guidance, and in a way, his advancement is just as important as my own."

"It's probably for the best anyway," Falman said without much conviction. "My family's in East City, and it's familiar to me. I just...I hope I can come back here someday."

"You will," Mustang murmured, and it sounded like a promise. "I'll make sure of it. You're not the only one with his sights set on this city and all it has to offer."

Falman raised his head, but Mustang was looking off into the distance at the faraway silhouette of Central Command, dark eyes full of a determination. For the first time, Falman noticed the small cardboard carton tucked onto the seat beside Mustang, half hidden under his discarded coat. "What's that, sir?"

Mustang emerged from his reverie long enough to lift the lid, revealing the files stuffed inside. "Nothing much. Just some classified information on the Hohenheim case that was being stored in the First Branch."

"And the librarians let you take that?" Falman said doubtfully, and his eyebrows flew up when Mustang merely gave him a sly look. "Major Hughes..."

"He's not all photographs and mindless obsession," Mustang said simply. Falman looked from the box to Mustang, and while part of him knew he should be appalled at the very obvious breach in protocol, his heart just wasn't in it. It was still a million miles away with the cheerful librarian in the station that he hadn't even known for a day...

Mustang made to put the lid back on the carton and paused, plucking a slip of folded paper free from the carton's confines. He frowned at it for a moment before holding it out. "It has your name on it."

Falman took the paper, realizing that he was right. And that the handwriting belonged to Major Hughes. He unfolded the paper and scanned the scrawled message. _Lesson three. Keep your enemies close, but your friends closer—they're the ones who'll watch your back when it all goes to hell._

"You're not going to report him for taking this information, are you?" Mustang said guardedly. "Grumman tells me you're a stickler for things like this."

Falman carefully tucked Hughes' note into his breast pocket. "Perhaps I should. But...there are worse things than taking a few files, Lieutenant Colonel. And I know Major Hughes must have had his reasons."

Mustang made a small noise of agreement, appraising him. "You know, Warrant Officer, you have a good head on your shoulders when you aren't bogged down in all the nitpicking details. But if you're to truly become part of my command, I need to know I can count on you."

"You can count on me, sir," Falman said automatically.

"But do you fully understand what I expect of you?" Mustang shot back. "If it came to it, could you point a gun at the Fuhrer and pull the trigger on my orders alone that it was the right thing to do?"

Falman gaped at the dead serious man across from him. After several tense seconds, Mustang grinned and laughed uproariously. "Oh relax, I'm only kidding! Seriously, what are the odds of  _that_  ever happening?"

"About one in—"

"Never mind," Mustang said, waving his hand quickly. Falman turned his attention to the box in his lap. He lifted the lid, smiling fondly at the memory of Sheska bustling around the kitchen and flipping through the pages of a cookbook. The pie had turned out beautifully with a flaky golden crust and several plump cherries spilling out of the portion where Sheska had cut out a slice. She had even thoughtfully given him a fork. Despite the fact that the pie had long since grown cold, Falman stuck the fork in the edge and popped a small bite into his mouth.

Mustang raised an amused eyebrow when he noticed Falman's slightly repulsed look. "Not good?"

"Must be the paprika," Falman muttered once he choked down the odd tasting morsel.

"Paprika in a  _pie?_ "

"Don't ask, sir."


	5. Major Alex Louis Armstrong

It was a long journey to the Ishvalan front. Longer still since the region's instability had prevented the laying of railroad tracks and the last leg of the trip had to be made either on foot, horseback or—in the case of the State Alchemists—crammed in the backs of military supply trucks designed to weather the unpaved roads. Though the canvas roof protected them from the sun, the temperature remained sweltering, and not even Major Armstrong could keep his shoulders from slumping beneath the weight of it. Conversation was sparse as soldiers fidgeted in discomfort or spoke quietly to their seatmates. Or else they stared off at nothing, preoccupied with what lay ahead. The alchemists checked and double checked their arrays with an anxiety that was almost obsessive.

A flash of white caught Armstrong's eyes when one of the alchemists raised a canteen to his lips, sweat dripping off cropped black hair. Memory seized him at the sight of the blood-red arrays on those gloves, and he moved directly across from the young man. "You there, you're Roy Mustang, aren't you? Do you remember me?"

The black-haired soldier glanced up at him and choked. Armstrong pounded on his back until he got himself under control, and Mustang chuckled weakly. "Oh, dear God...how could I forget? Back at the academy, right? When the higher-ups thought it'd be fun to set up mock duels for all the new alchemists."

"I thought it was you!" Armstrong said jovially. "I must say, your alchemy was quite a sight to behold. Such power and iron-clad control! I spent much of that match on the defensive."

"You almost had me at the end though," Mustang admitted. "I wasn't expecting you to charge right then."

"Hey, I remember that match!" someone spoke up, eyes shining. "That was incredible! I can't believe you both walked away from that alive!"

"It was an honor to pit my skills against such a worthy opponent!" Armstrong proclaimed while Mustang shrugged ruefully. In the corner, someone scoffed, causing several heads to turn. The man huddled there let his eyes travel over the fresh, youthful faces, coming to Mustang and Armstrong last of all.

" _Honor,_  you say," the man sneered. "You only call it that because it was nothing more than a game. But not anymore. I've  _been_  to the Cretan border, and I can tell you one thing. In a true fight to the death, there  _is_ no honor. You stop thinking about the other person's pain and fear because your own is all that matters. And pretty soon you realize that it's the same for  _him_. Both of you want nothing more than to take a step back and go your own way, but you  _don't_ because you've been ordered not to, and so you fight until one of you is dead. I ask you...where's the  _honor_ in that?"

The soldiers exchanged uneasy looks. Armstrong clenched his fists. He had a great deal of respect for those men and women who had already served in combat, as his father and grandfather had, but the one thing they had drilled into him was to  _never_ forsake his duty, to stand firm before his nation's enemies and always remember his purpose for being there. But they hadn't even entered the warzone yet and already this veteran's words were causing the men around him to wilt and question their purpose...

"The honor is in protecting our nation," Mustang asserted. "All of us are here because we chose to become soldiers. We  _chose_ to put our skills to use defending Amestris from the enemies picking at our borders. And now that the Ishvalans have become one of those enemies, it's up to us to put this uprising down before more lives are lost."

The man in the corner uttered a harsh, bitter laugh. "Oh, is  _that_ what they've told you? Just a little uprising in need of being put down? Let me tell you something,  _boy_. How are we  _possibly_ threatened by a tribe of people with no heavy artillery, no standing army and no alchemy? How is this barren land so valuable that every State Alchemist in the country must be deployed? It's like crushing ants with a hammer. And tell me, how do you think this war will pan out? Will the ants leave their nest once it's become clear they're outclassed? Oh no...they'll stick it out to the last man, woman and child, and our Fuhrer will have us drive them into the ground until there's not a one left. It's an extermination!"

Armstrong leapt to his feet, his head scraping the canvas ceiling. "Our leaders would  _never_  condone that!" he thundered. "Such a thing would be inhumane!"

"And it's not like we started this," someone put in defensively. "We  _offered_  a peaceful annexation, and it was them who decided to resist—"

The veteran stamped butt of his rifle on the floor. "Of  _course_ they resisted! Wouldn't  _you_ resist if Drachma overran Briggs and forced us to start using their language and living by their laws? We've given the Ishvalans no choice _but_  to resist, and now the more they fight, the more the blame falls on them for keeping the violence going. Don't you see, you arrogant fools?  _We're_ the invaders here. Not they."

"Even so," Mustang said quietly, "we have to put our faith in our leaders and trust that they will make the right choices. All we can do is watch each other's backs and follow the orders we're given."

"Indeed," Armstrong concurred, impressed by this youth's commanding air. "That was well said, Flame Alchemist."

Mustang offered him a thin smile, but that faded when the truck stopped, and the rest of the caravan with it. Armstrong checked his pocketwatch with a frown. They should have many hours to go before they arrived at their command post. He threw back the flap and leaned out, noticing men in the other trucks doing the same. They were surrounded by high dunes with a crossroads straight ahead where a woman shrouded in robes ushered a herd of bony cattle across their route. But there weren't any farms nearby big enough to house a herd of that size.

Without warning, battle shouts came from all sides and dozens of Ishvalans charged down the dunes toward the halted caravan. An ambush, Armstrong thought in affront. They meant to stop them from ever reaching their comrades!

"Men, to arms!" Armstrong roared, jolting the others into action. "We're under attack!"

" _Heathen!_ " an Ishvalan yelled, sunlight glinting off the dagger he held in Armstrong's direction. " _Kill all the alchemist heathens!_ "

Armstrong's eyes shot to his hand gripping the canvas flap, the gauntlet with its array perfectly visible and flashing in the sunlight. He cursed himself for his carelessness and dropped to the ground quickly, fists slamming the sands. The scant minerals swirled together, morphing into a magnificent defensive wall high enough to shield the soldiers dismounting from the trucks. They fanned out behind the wall and returned fire, felling many attackers, but the Ishvalans just kept  _coming_. Armstrong took a moment to wonder why on earth they were trying an all-out charge rather than staying back and firing on them from afar before he remembered.

_No heavy artillery, no standing army._

_No alchemy._

That meant no weapons. Nothing but the staves, knives and pistols they possessed now. And these weren't hardened fighters. They wore no uniforms, had no formation. They were just  _people_. People so desperate and afraid and  _angry_ that they didn't even notice their dying comrades, so determined were they to kill their enemies.

"Don't just stand there!" the field commander snapped at Armstrong. "You can perform long-range transmutations, can't you?"

"But sir!" Armstrong protested, unable to tear his eyes away from the suicidal charge. A mortal scream distracted him, and Armstrong cried out when a young soldier fell with blood streaming from a stab wound in his thigh. The woman who had been guiding the cow herd knelt above the terrified boy, a dagger raised high in both hands.

" _Die, Amestrian!_ "

A quiet, almost indiscernible  _snap_  echoed in the tiny canyon. The sound of oxygen combusting. Armstrong watched dumbfounded as the woman's clothes and hair were enveloped in flames that seemed to spring from nowhere. She fell to the sands screaming, then convulsing and then she stilled, nothing more than a charred corpse. The voracious fire rushed over Armstrong's wall and swept up the slope where it claimed eight more lives before the Ishvalans dropped their weapons and fled. Many were shot down as they ran, and the soldiers whooped as the last enemy vanished beyond the dunes. They were allowed a moment of celebration before their commander called them to order.

"Enough, shut  _up_ , you dogs! You want to hang around here until they bring back reinforcements? We need to keep moving!"

"But what about the dead?" Armstrong faltered. "Surely there's some time to...?"

The commander spared the bodies littering the sands a passing glance and sniffed. "Enemies, Major Armstrong. Traitors deserve to be left to the vultures. Move out!"

Armstrong gritted his teeth in outrage. He would have understood forgoing a proper burial for fear of another attack, but enemies or no, they deserved recognition for their bravery! But everyone was already piling back into the trucks, flushed with victory, and Armstrong made himself useful by carrying the wounded man to the nearest vehicle. He hesitated before climbing in himself, noticing that Mustang still stood above the dead woman. Armstrong called for the driver to wait and went over. "Major..."

"That," Mustang breathed, not lifting his eyes from the corpse, "that was the first time I've ever killed with fire. The first time I've ever killed  _anyone_ , in fact. She was the first."

A humorless smirk touched his lips. "For some reason, I always thought it'd be a man. Some big, hulking brute that I would know to the core of my soul deserved what he had coming."

"You did what was necessary to save your comrade," Armstrong told him softly. "Even I could not manage that. You are...a far better man than I."

Mustang scowled fiercely as he scanned the numerous bodies. "You think so? Then why do I feel as if I just crossed a river of blood?"

Ignoring their commander's impatient shouts, Mustang raised his hand again. Armstrong stepped back quickly as a second  _snap_ resounded and a wave of fire overtook the dunes so hot that it rivaled the sun and reduced the bodies to ashes. Tears pricked in Armstrong's eyes when more screams reached them, and Mustang's expression became one of agony at the realization that not all of those bodies had been dead.

* * *

He only lasted five weeks on the frontlines.

It was just...too much. Before his eyes, the veteran's ominous words had become fact. When Armstrong went to battle, it wasn't to fight his nation's enemies or to save innocent people. He saved  _no one_. Instead, his alchemy was put to use blocking streets, felling buildings, cutting off and hemming in so the foot soldiers could move in and pick the fleeing civilians off one by one. He stood beyond the walls and listened to their cries, never seeing their faces, but their voices rang in his ears even long after they had been silenced by death. Ranting, begging,  _screaming._

_Help us! Save us, Ishvala!_

_Just let us go! What have we done? What have we ever done to you?_

_Amestrian filth, you'll rot in hell for this!_

He couldn't remember just how many had fallen beneath the onslaught of his alchemy, couldn't count the bodies in his memory, and the thought made him sick with self-loathing. The purging of the Ishvalan people had spared no one. Not sick and elderly, not the women, not even the  _children_...

Bare fists tightened on the steering wheel. Armstrong leaned forward to rest his head on the rim as the morning sunlight fell across his back and burned with the same heat as back then.

_A street deep in the city torn asunder by alchemy, dozens of combatants fighting for their lives. And there in the middle of it all stood a boy—a frightened little boy no older than eight or nine. Armstrong screamed until his throat was raw, begging him to run, but to no avail. A stray bullet cut through the chaos at just the right moment and punched a hole in the back of his fragile skull. He was dead before he hit the ground. Armstrong crawled closer and gathered the little body to his chest, transfixed by pale hair dyed a glistening red._

_Why must we continue to fight a war like this? It's wrong!_

_Enough! Get up, Major Armstrong, and fight! If you don't, more of your comrades will die!_

He had tried. So many times, Armstrong had  _tried._  Each day, he had stood up and obeyed his orders no matter how it tore at his heart and soul. He even managed to save some of his own men at times, but those moments were mere pinpricks of light in a vast, black abyss. Mostly, he had only killed and killed and  _killed_.

_A woman and her elderly mother hiding under the wreckage of a fruit stand, a last desperate bid to escape the bullets of the Amestrian soldiers. The old woman muttered prayers over a string of beads while the younger glared at him hatefully, tears streaking her filth-ridden face. And suddenly, he couldn't take it. When he raised his fist, it was not to strike them but his own alchemic creation that had been used to trap them._

_Go! Flee to the east and don't look back!_

_They didn't bother to thank him as they stepped through the hole in the wall and hurried away. He watched them stumble across the sands, and the young woman turned back one final time, perhaps to make sure he was truly going to let him live..._

... _and then he watched as they were both enveloped in a sudden blast of light and scorching heat. They had never even seen it coming. Their dead faces were still frozen with hope and the beginnings of gratitude. Chemicals stung his face as he sank to his knees, and the Crimson Alchemist emerged from the smoke, tattooed hands shoved carelessly in his pockets._

_Close one, Major. You ought to be more careful next time. If anyone else had seen that, you could have been in deep trouble with the brass..._

A car horn honked, bringing him back to the present. Sluggishly, Armstrong raised his head and forced himself to  _see_ Central. Just down the street was the command center, the heart of the country, sunlight shining off the pristine white stone. It was almost too neat, too perfect compared to the rubble strewn across his memory, and the sight hurt his eyes.

In the end, his refusal to follow orders had made no difference. He had been left behind, replaced, and the atrocities had continued for months and months while he cowered in Central. His mother tried to be understanding, tolerating his bouts of grief and somnolence without criticism. His father attempted to coax some words out of him, to understand what it was that had driven his only son to such misery, but Armstrong couldn't bring himself to describe the vile things he had been made to do. If they  _knew_ , they would surely look on him with the same disgust with which he viewed himself.

_You're a disgrace! Forget this spineless fool and call for another State Alchemist!_

Armstrong fumbled for his silver watch and tried once more to work up the nerve to enter the command center and discard it, along with his title. He could not remain attached to the military knowing that at any moment they could call him back out to be used as a human weapon. It went against everything he had ever been taught.

_No matter what, Alex, you must hold fast to your beliefs. Your honor is everything, especially out on the battlefield where most other men forsake it. If one man holds true to what is right, then others will follow him. It's up to you to be that man._

"I couldn't be that man," Armstrong whispered. He clasped his watch in both hands and rested his forehead against steepled fingers. That was the position he was in when the passenger door swung open, and he stared in blank surprise as a soldier slid into the seat beside him, white-blonde hair rippling down her back and her arms and legs crossed stiffly. "Sister..."

"Alex," Olivier returned coolly, eyes fixed straight ahead. "Have you made your decision yet?"

Armstrong dropped his gaze to his watch. "I...I must leave the military."

"That is not an answer," Olivier retorted. " _Will_ you or  _won't_ you?"

When he didn't answer, her upper lip curled into a tiny sneer. "Has my younger brother really become so indecisive? So weak?"

Armstrong looked away from his stout sister in shame. Of all his family, she alone had made no secret of her disappointment in him. All his life he had looked up to her, admired her strength and resilience as she forged through the military academy and beyond until she distinguished herself as the first woman to ever attain the rank of Major-General and take command of the formidable Briggs fortress. She was the country's northern wall, an indomitable leader and woman.

And the first time she had seen him after his return from the Ishvalan front, she had turned her back and walked away, coldly and wordlessly denying any relation with him. True, Olivier wasn't one for open affection, but never before had she forced so much distance between them, and it  _hurt_ , a swift and silent dagger to his heart.

"I heard from father that you have abandoned alchemy as well," Olivier remarked. "Is this true?"

"I cannot don those gauntlets again," Armstrong rasped. "Each time I do, I see their faces. The faces of the ones I killed..."

Olivier tossed her hair. "I have said it before, you're too soft for the life of a soldier. You knew from the outset that your alchemy would be used as a weapon, and that by virtue of your abilities, you would be forced to take many more lives than that of an ordinary soldier. None of that is an excuse to give up your greatest skill."

"I never condoned the killing of innocent people!" Armstrong protested. "They were  _not_  our enemies! There must have been another way..."

"Then you should have  _found_  another way!" Olivier snapped at him. "Had you remained on the battlefield, at least you might have made a small bit of difference rather than abandoning your men and shaming yourself with your cowardice!"

"Sister,  _enough_ ," Armstrong growled, fighting to restrain himself. "You have made it perfectly clear many times how I offended you by forsaking my duty. But I  _could not_  stay."

"That is the excuse of a weakling. At least the other alchemists had the guts to stick it out to the very bitter end. Even  _Mustang_ stayed, that spineless twat of a man—"

" _You weren't there!_ " Armstrong roared and slammed his fists into the dashboard. Another memory surfaced of firelight and laughing voices recounting the amazing feats of the alchemists that day. And huddled in the sand furthest from the circle of light was young Roy Mustang, dark eyes haunted as they stared into the jumping flames. Flinching each time he was clapped on the shoulder, shivering whenever the firewood cracked and sent a burst of sparks shooting upward, occasionally meeting Armstrong's gaze across the fire in mutual suffering...

"A-Alex..."

" _You weren't there_ ," Armstrong repeated in vehemence. "You have no idea. For all of your skill, you are only one soldier and you'll  _never_  understand the suffering I and my fellow alchemists went through. How very  _aptly_  the title of 'human weapon' describes us. Roy Mustang could murder  _hundreds_ in the course of a single transmutation. Hundreds  _gone_ in the time it takes to snap your fingers. The Crimson Alchemist leveled entire cities on a single order from his superiors. And I...I was tasked with making sure they had as many targets as possible before they unleashed their alchemy and soaked the desert sands with blood. No mere human should  _ever_ possess power like that!"

He shuddered and covered his mouth, sickened. He hardly even noticed that, for the first time in weeks, Olivier was  _looking_ at him. Really looking, and her eyes were wide and shocked by the words leaving her brother's mouth.

Armstrong breathed deeply for a moment, regaining his composure with difficulty. "The State set us on the Ishvalans like rabid dogs, expecting us to kill and obey and nothing else. Any insubordination,  _any_ discontent at all was an act of treason. Hordes of our very own soldiers were executed by the day, and each hour I felt my resolve weakening, I lived in fear that I would be next. Not even in death could I find the absolution I sought. So Sister, do not deign to tell  _me_ what I should have done differently. Not when you don't know any better."

A deathly silence fell over the car, a stark contrast to the bustling streets just beyond the windows. Citizens hurried back and forth on some business or other, and a few bent their heads intently over the newspaper headlines broadcasting the end of the war. Of course the papers would never tell the whole story, that an entire race had been wiped from the earth for the sake of their peace of mind. Only those who had been there would forever carry the truth in their hearts.

"Tell me."

Armstrong jerked. "W-What?"

Olivier turned to the window once more, but now her expression was contemplative and just the slightest bit disturbed. "Clearly, there is far more to this than I had originally assumed. The law of Briggs is survival of the fittest, but even I know such a simple and callous way of life cannot be applied to the country as a whole. And especially not when it comes to civilian lives. I hadn't known...I had thought there must be a  _reason_ the alchemists were deployed in such numbers, a true and needful reason, but..."

She looked him dead in the eye. "I must know what happened, Alex. Everything you did, everything the military did, all of it. Hold nothing back. I cannot afford to remain in ignorance."

Armstrong hesitated for a long moment. The very thought of recounting all the horrifying events that had led him to this point was almost too much to bear. But he couldn't clamp it all down inside any longer. The pain just kept welling up, an ocean of blood, a tempest of screams, and he had to expel it before it tainted him any further. And once he started, he couldn't stop. Armstrong spoke of his first glimpse of combat, of the little boy with blood in his hair and the old woman and her daughter, of the despair as his gift was warped until the spark of a transmutation became not a rallying cry but a death knell. Olivier let him go on without interruption save to pass him a handkerchief when his words ran out and his tears spoke the rest.

The sun was high by the time he finished. Armstrong heaved a mighty sigh, feeling as if he had expunged a great evil from his soul.

"Don't leave the military," Olivier advised quietly. "You may have left the battlefield dishonored, but as long as you remain a soldier, you may yet return and redeem yourself. Besides, the State needs soft lugs like you to balance out the ruthless bitches like me."

"Sister, don't speak of yourself in such crude terms," Armstrong chided, wiping his nose. "How will you ever find a husband?"

She smacked his arm and shoved the door open, casting a rare, frosty smile over her shoulder. And Armstrong's heart fairly burst with joy and love. "Thank you, Olivier."

Olivier snorted as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. "Don't thank me. I would have let you quit and saved our family further humiliation. But...Mustang called a few days ago from his new post in the east. It was he who urged me to speak with you."

"He did?" Armstrong said, startled. "Why would he...?"

"Who knows?" Olivier said, flapping her hand. "He must see something in you. God knows what."

"But," Armstrong said and followed her out of the car quickly. "But you didn't  _need_ to listen to him. Or me. You didn't need to urge me to remain a soldier..."

She paused with her back to him. "I am your sister. Is it not my obligation to guide you on the right path?"

"That is not an answer, Olivier."

"No, it is not," Olivier said cryptically and marched away. Armstrong gripped his watch with new determination and headed in the opposite direction, toward Central Command. In a matter of moments, he stood before his superior and saluted smartly, standing tall and proud for the first time in months.

"Major Alex Louis Armstrong reporting for duty, sir!"

* * *

_**Several Years Later** _

"Oh,  _ew_ ," Lieutenant Colonel Hughes said when he crouched down and peeked under the bloodied sheet. He replaced it hastily and gave the man behind him an aggrieved look. "Okay, I  _know_  you wanted this case wrapped up quickly, but are you seriously suggesting I put this corpse on trial? I didn't come all the way to East City just to perform an autopsy, you know, I've got better things to do..."

"Alright, I get it!" Mustang griped. "We screwed up, are you happy? Just do the best you can, Hughes."

"Major?" Hughes said, beckoning. Armstrong peered down at the mutilated remains of Shou Tucker grimly. Anyone else he would have pitied such a ghastly death, but based on the accusations against this man, everyone was of the consensus that justice had been served. He let his eyes sweep over the remains of the dead chimera that had once been an innocent child and her dog.

"And the guards outside died in the same way?"

"Exactly the same, like they were blown apart from the inside."

"There's no doubt about it, sir," Armstrong remarked. "It was  _him_."

"You know who did this?" Mustang demanded, looking between them.

"We shouldn't talk here," Hughes said with a fleeting glance at the MPs milling around. "I think we have all the evidence we need so let's clear out and let them start the clean-up."

The three soldiers retreated outside and darted through the heavy downpour to the military car awaiting them. Armstrong squeezed himself into the back seat while Hughes started the engine and Mustang took the front passenger side. The colonel glanced back as Hughes steered the car onto the slick roads. "By the way, long time no see, Major Armstrong."

Armstrong's eyebrows flew up in surprise, and he beamed. "You remember me still, even after all these years!"

"How could I forget?" Mustang murmured, but his words were tainted by bitter shared memory. "Though the mustache is a new addition. Looks good on you."

Armstrong puffed up his chest. "Indeed! This mustache is a majestic emblem sported by all men of the Armstrong family in the prime of our lives. See how it bristles and shines with the luster of youth and virility!"

"We can see it from here just fine!" Mustang assured him when Armstrong attempted to lean forward and show them properly. His expression grew pensive. "You know, I've actually been thinking about growing a mustache..."

" _Pfft—!_ "

Hughes wheezed and doubled over the steering wheel. Concerned for his health, Armstrong patted his back. "Sir, are you feeling quite well?"

"I'm f-f-fine," Hughes choked. "I j-just got this...this  _image_ in my mind. Roy with a  _mustache..._ "

"What the hell is so funny?" Mustang said petulantly. "I'd look damn good with a mustache!"

"Indeed, you would, sir," Armstrong agreed. "Facial hair would add a certain refinement to your boyish charm!"

"Stop it, you're both killing me!" Hughes howled, slapping his knee. "Roy, I'm begging you, at least wait until you're a general before you go  _that_ route so you can court martial all the people who'll be snickering behind your back..."

"We're here," Mustang said sullenly when they pulled up to the Eastern Command Center. Ignoring the chortling Hughes, he led the way across the courtyard and inside. The corridors were bustling with activity as they marched purposefully to Mustang's office where he beckoned a first lieutenant named Hawkeye to join their conversation. Hughes made no objection to her presence so Armstrong proceeded with his explanation.

By the time he finished describing the string of murders across the country—all of the victims having been State Alchemists—no one was laughing.

"The killer's background is a mystery, as are his motives," Armstrong concluded. "The only clues we've received are a distinguishing feature—an X-shaped scar on his forehead, the inspiration for his alias. In Central, he's killed five State Alchemists, and nationwide the body count is up to ten."

"Yes, I've heard the rumors," Mustang said, arms crossed broodingly. "And you think Tucker's murder was his work?"

"After what we saw, there's no doubt," Hughes agreed. Looking between the two alchemists gravely, he clapped the colonel's shoulder. "For all we know, you two could be next. You'd better double your security detail and lay low for awhile. I'm asking you as a friend. Since you and Tucker are the only well-known alchemists in this area, it shouldn't be long before Scar falls off the radar to try his luck somewhere else..."

But this didn't seem to soothe Mustang in the slightest. At once, the color drained from his face, making him look positively ill. " _Oh no..._ "

"Sir, what is it?" Armstrong asked in alarm.

Mustang whirled around and burst from his office to catch the shoulder of the nearest lower rank. "Havoc! I need you to verify if the Elrics are still at their lodgings. On the double!"

"Sir!" Hawkeye spoke up. "I just spoke with them twenty minutes ago. They left H.Q. heading out into the city. I'm sorry, I didn't think to stop them..."

"Now of all times!" Mustang muttered in agitation. "Havoc, round up my men and anyone else you can. Get some cars and follow after us. Go,  _go!_ "

"Got it, Chief!"

"Roy, are you sure that's a good idea?" Hughes said after Havoc's hurried departure.

"Does it look like I  _care?_ " Roy snapped back. Hawkeye came to his side with his coat and gloves in hand, and he yanked on both before he took off running. It was all Hughes and Armstrong could do to keep up as the four of them sped back outside to where they had left the car. Roy gestured at Hughes for the keys and made an impatient noise when Hawkeye snatched them up instead. " _Lieutenant_..."

"We're waiting for Havoc," Hawkeye said tersely. "Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, unless you plan to join us, I suggest you go back inside. He's not going to listen to reason right now."

"There they are!" Mustang announced when several military cars veered around the corner and pulled up, ready to follow. He jerked open the door and took the front seat while Hawkeye circled to the driver side.

"But—but—oh, the hell with it!" Hughes exclaimed and clamored into the backseat. "I think you're both nuts, and this killer scares the crap out of me, but if Ed and Al end up running into him..."

"Sirs, might I ask  _who_  we're speaking of?" Armstrong put in, now thoroughly lost as he joined Hughes in the backseat. "Is there another alchemist in danger?"

"My subordinate," Mustang said shortly. "You've heard of the Fullmetal Alchemist, haven't you?"

Armstrong caught his breath. "Of course! Edward Elric, the young boy who passed the exam at the age of twelve. He and his brother are quite the conversation topic among Central's aristocrats. But...but surely not even Scar would be heartless enough to take a  _child's_ life?"

No one answered him, and Armstrong had to forcibly shove back the recent image of that broken, bloodied chimera curled up beside her father. They shot forth from the curb, zipping through intersections recklessly. Mustang scoured the streets. "Look for red," he advised them. "We should see Ed's coat a mile away..."

A flash of the deadly color caught Armstrong's eye, and he pointed. "There! I saw something!"

Hawkeye spun them around the corner so fast that the cars behind them were hard-pressed to keep up. Armstrong looked at her in awe. "That was most skillfully done, madam! Not even my family's most accomplished drivers can compare—!"

" _Stop!_ " Mustang roared. He flung himself out, and Armstrong hastened to follow, but what he saw when he looked ahead halted him in his tracks. The rest of the world, the rain and his comrades, all faded to nothing. All he could see was that tiny body kneeling in the street, blond hair limp and ragged from the rain and hanging in a disheveled curtain across his face. And standing over him, a man with a distinctive scar on his face and not a trace of mercy in his eyes.

_Close one, Major. If anyone else had seen that..._

_Get up, Major Armstrong, and fight!_

_Has my younger brother become so indecisive? So weak?_

_Why do I feel as if I just crossed a river of blood?_

_I must do something,_  Armstrong thought numbly, but his body remained frozen as the murderer leaned over and reached for the unmoving child. Horror rose in him when a young voice screamed from a nearby alley, crying out for his brother to be spared...

A loud gunshot brought him back to the present. The killer paused, his hand hovering scant inches from the boy's face. The child jerked at the noise, eyes wide with mortal fear. "Colonel—!"

"That was close, Fullmetal," Mustang said tersely, his gun still aimed at the sky. "So this is the man we suspect of murdering all those State Alchemists. And judging by what I see here, that suspicion just became fact."

Scar slowly straightened. "This world was made perfect by God," he said softly, hardly audible over the rain. "Alchemists are those who would alter things from their natural form. They profane God, the true creator of all things! As an agent of God, I am here to hand down his judgment."

"Oh, is that so?" Mustang said haughtily, and he passed off his gun to Hawkeye. "Hold this, and stay back."

"But—but Colonel Mustang—!"

Armstrong circled slowly as Mustang continued to draw the killer's attention. He was doing a marvelous job of it, blithely boasting of his alchemic prowess until Scar abandoned Fullmetal and charged. The major beckoned the others forward to take charge of the boy, and Armstrong had a moment of dizzying fright when it he realized his right arm was gone. Bits of automail littered the street. So it seemed whatever methods Scar used to destroy human bodies could be applied to inanimate objects as well. But it was strange that one man could cause so much destruction without any apparent weapons or explosives on his person. Almost as if...

"So you know who I am, and you  _still_ want to challenge me? I'll have to make you a funeral pyre— _gah!_ "

In one motion, Hawkeye kicked Mustang's feet from under him and opened fire on Scar, forcing the killer back. Armstrong flung his shirt aside for greater range of motion and threw himself into the fray.  _This_ was an opponent he could face! "So you say you would kill everyone here, innocent or no? In that case, you'll have to start by defeating me! We'll see how you fare against the artistic alchemic technique passed down the Armstrong line for  _generations!_ "

Everyone looked on in awe as Armstrong punched the ground with all his might. The street buckled, rising up in a spiked wave that Scar shattered with a single touch of his right hand. His next blow sent a cascade of beautifully crafted projectiles raining down on the murderer, but the man was quite agile and managed to avoid them all. Clearly this would be more difficult than he anticipated, especially now that he had confirmed the extent of Scar's abilities as a fighter. And an alchemist.

"Major, don't go tearing up the street!" Lieutenant Havoc cried in agitation.

" _What do you mean?_ " Armstrong bellowed. "Creation and destruction are two sides of the same coin! You must destroy to create, it's the grand currency of the universe! Perhaps a non-alchemist would fail to see the inherent truth in that statement...but  _we_ understand, don't we Scar?"

An audible gasp rose from the crowd at the revelation. Scar gritted his teeth and then jumped back quickly when Armstrong closed in with a series of strikes that left him backed up against the wall. Seeing Hawkeye in his periphery, Armstrong feinted to draw the killer into an attack then quickly moved away so she would have a clear shot. Two of the bullets grazed Scar, one on his arm and the other on his temple, knocking his glasses to the street. Without their covering, his eyes were visible for all to see—deep red and brimming with hatred. Armstrong backed up a pace in shock, and Mustang let out a vicious oath.

"An Ishvalan!"

Scar took advantage of their distraction to blow the street open and escape through the sewers. Soldiers gathered at the edge to peer down at the gaping maw, and Mustang's lips were white as he and Armstrong looked at one another, equally shaken. For a long tense moment, the only noise that could be heard was that of the pattering rain.

Hughes poked his head between them. "Oh, is it over yet?"

"Lieutenant Colonel, where have you been?" Armstrong said blankly.

"Taking cover, where else?"

"You didn't think about  _maybe_ backing us up?" Mustang snapped, rounding on him furiously.

Hughes held up his hands. "Hey,  _I'm_ as normal as they come, and this is a contest of freaks! What'd you want me to do, fire my slingshot at him?"

" _Alphonse!_ "

Fullmetal's cry was shockingly young amongst all the wreckage. The armless boy sprinted to a trashed suit of armor propped against the wall of the alley. On a closer look, Armstrong realized in astonishment that the armor was empty...and yet still  _moving_. In fact, the animated suit proceeded to punch the young alchemist and berate him at the top of his—metaphorical—lungs.

"You  _idiot!_  Why didn't you run away when I told you to?"

" _W-Why?_  I wasn't about to leave you behind! He could have killed you!"

"So  _you_ decided to die instead? What kind of an  _idiot_ makes a decision like that?"

"Hey, don't call your older brother an idiot!"

" _I'll call you what I want!_ "

"That...that suit of armor," Armstrong whispered. "Is that...Elric's younger brother?"

"Oh, hell," Hughes lamented, rubbing the back of his head. "I've stumbled into a whole 'nother kind of freakshow, haven't I?"

" _Oh, GREAT! And now my arm's come off because my brother's a big, fat IDIOT!_ "

Mustang chuckled, but then his expression grew hard. More soldiers had arrived on the scene and were crowding closer, drawn by the argument. He signaled Lieutenant Hawkeye and a few others to form a perimeter around the Elrics. "Don't let anyone too close. Be sure to instruct those men to forget  _everything_  they've seen here."

"That wouldn't happen to include me and the major, would it?" Hughes said slyly, nudging the colonel's shoulder. But Mustang didn't laugh, glancing at Armstrong guardedly.

"Maybe not you, Hughes, but if your subordinate is having any notions about reporting this to certain people..."

Armstrong faltered, taken aback by the protectiveness in Mustang's stance. Like at any moment he was prepared to jump in front of the brothers and defend them with nothing but his bare fists. He took another look at the boy and the armor. No,  _Alphonse_. Like any alchemist, Armstrong could easily recognize the products of a failed human transmutation, and that was precisely the sort of thing he, as a soldier, was required to report to a higher authority.

But still, there was something about those boys...

"Perhaps, sir," Armstrong said slowly, "it would help if you explained why you  _haven't_  reported them."

"Good idea," Hughes asserted, hands on his hips. "I think you owe me an explanation too."

"I'll explain at headquarters," Mustang promised them. "But first let's get those two off the street. Major, if you could help Al's armor?"

Armstrong nodded and approached the two boys who were already surrounded by Mustang's direct subordinates. Hawkeye draped her jacket over the elder Elric, and sharp gold eyes looked on warily as Armstrong knelt beside the armor. "It's Alphonse, correct? Would you allow me to carry you to safety?"

The helmet turned, softly glowing eyes fixated on Armstrong, and strangely, those eyes took his mind right back to the young Ishvalan he had failed to save all those years ago. And for a moment he thought he saw what that child would have looked like alive, smiling and happy, red eyes shining with the light of youth and innocence.

* * *

"The Philosopher's Stone?"

Mustang nodded. "It's probably their only chance of restoring their bodies. I've been supplying them with all the information I can get my hands on these past few years. I don't know if it even exists or if it can be made by human hands, but if anyone can do it, it's Ed."

"And in exchange, Ed's been playing the part of the military's dog," Hughes mused, pacing around Mustang's office. "I have to admit, I'm impressed. I always knew Ed had to have another reason for joining the military. When I asked him that one time, he just said it was what he had to do to take care of his brother."

"Such maturity and strength," Armstrong said in wonder. "He's taken on a heavy burden for someone so young. But sir...I'll admit, I'm still a little baffled."

"I have to agree," Hughes said with a slow grin. "Don't think I don't know what you're risking by keeping their secret. If this ever got out, you'd be hit with a military tribunal or worse. Just what do you get out of protecting them?"

"I told you before," Mustang replied. "In case you hadn't heard, Fullmetal is a prodigy, and his fame serves to put my reputation in a positive light. I've thought through everything, Hughes, all the risks and benefits, and logically..."

"Logically?" Hughes said sweetly, tapping his chin. "If you don't mind my saying, there was nothing  _logical_ about the way you went rushing into danger to find them. In fact, I'd say that was rather out of character for the Roy Mustang I know."

"What are you talking about?" Mustang said, eyes narrowed. "I would have done the same for any one of my subordinates—"

" _And_  keeping their secret all these years, even from your best friend? That's paranoid, even for you. You must really be  _concerned_ about what could happen to them if the condition of their bodies was found out..."

Mustang colored just the slightest bit, rubbing the back of his neck. "Ugh, you're so  _nosy_. Do you  _want_  me to say I care about them? Fine, I care about them! Happy now?"

"Very much so," Hughes said, positively beaming.

"And if you repeat that outside this room, I  _will_ turn you to charcoal."

"Point taken."

"Now if you'll excuse me," Mustang said brusquely and swept out the door. Armstrong watched him go with a whole new respect for the man and his decision not only to protect the Elrics, but also to aid them in their quest. To think that mere children had gone through such a thing and  _survived_. It defied the imagination and inspired Armstrong in a way he couldn't put into words.

"Major," Hughes said in mock sternness. "Don't start crying now."

Armstrong shook his head, his throat thick with emotion. "It's just so..."

"Yeah, I know. Really makes you want to do something for those kids, doesn't it?"

"Not just for them, sir," Armstrong admitted. "After the war, I think many of us alchemists lost touch with ourselves for awhile. We didn't know what was right anymore. It's good to know that Colonel Mustang has not become one of those men."

Hughes studied him in surprise before he nodded his approval. "Well, if you really feel that way, maybe there  _is_ something you can do. Those boys are going to need to see their mechanic in Resembool. That's a long journey for a one-armed kid and a banged up suit of armor. I think we can all agree that the best person to defend them against Scar is another alchemist, and since I doubt Roy can take the time away from his duties..."

Armstrong's heart leapt. "I would be greatly honored to accompany them, sir!"

"I thought as much," Hughes said in approval, and they went to rejoin the others in the outer office. Mustang's men were grouped around their superior while he debriefed them on the situation. Ed and Al had secluded themselves off to the side where they conversed in low tones. The younger Elric's shattered armor had been modestly covered with a tarp, and Armstrong's eyes filled with tears at the reminder of all they had weathered at such a tender age.

Al stopped talking when Armstrong approached them, and after a moment Ed looked up as well. "Um...hi?"

" _Oh, Edward Elric!_ "

" _Gah!_  Al, help! I'm being molested!"

"Brother, I think he's only trying to hug you!"

"Ow, my ribs!"

"To think of the sorrows you went through! The devastation that drove you to attempt to revive your dear mother! The unflinching brotherly love that compelled you to sacrifice your arm so as to retrieve your brother's disembodied soul!  _I am so moved!_ "

" _...OKAY, WHO TOLD HIM?_ "

* * *

From then on, Armstrong found himself drawn deeper into the Elric brothers' quest. Ed and Al repaired their bodies and set out for Central to track down Marcoh's research, and soon enough their persistence paid off and led them to Laboratory Five and the secrets for which Marcoh had exiled himself. It had been a month since the laboratory collapsed, one month since Fuhrer Bradley himself urged them to forget the matter of the Philosopher's Stone for their own safety.

One month since Maes Hughes was brutally slain in a telephone booth outside Central Command.

Outside the bathroom stall, Armstrong heard the outer door squeak open. The sigh that reached him beyond the door was both familiar and unexpected, and he peered over the top of the stall. Colonel Mustang stood before the sinks, his jacket discarded and sleeves rolled up so he could splash water on his face. He gave his unshaven reflection a long, hard look, and Armstrong's heart grew heavy. He hadn't realized the two men were such close friends until Brigadier General Hughes' funeral, and his death had changed Mustang in ways the war had not.

Mustang started and spun around. When he saw Armstrong, he heaved an exasperated sigh. "Jeez, Major. You scared the hell out of me."

"My apologies, sir," Armstrong replied. He flushed and stepped out of the stall to wash his hands. Mustang went back to staring at the mirror, not acknowledging the concerned look Armstrong threw his way. "You look like you've lost some weight, Colonel."

"Maybe," Mustang said indifferently. "But you don't look so good yourself. What happened?"

Armstrong glanced at his own reflection and the bandage swathing his head. "There was...an incident down in the south. But don't you worry, it's just a scratch."

Mustang didn't look ready to believe that for an instant, but the Fuhrer's raid on The Devil's Nest was still considered highly classified information that Armstrong was not permitted to discuss. At least not in the middle of the command center where there could be a listener around every corner. He attempted to change the subject. "I ran into the Elric brothers down south. Apparently, they'd gone to Dublith to visit an old teacher."

"Is that right?" Mustang said, but it was clear his troubled thoughts were elsewhere. "Fullmetal turns sixteen soon. Every year around this time, I wonder if he'll manage to reach his goal before he's sent off to the battlefront as a human weapon."

Armstrong paused in the act of drying his hands, his breath catching at the thought of that fiery and virtuous young man being thrown into a hell like that. "Would you really allow that, sir?"

"Ed knew the risks when he joined up," Mustang said stonily and turned off his faucet. "We can't make allowances, not even for a child."

"With respect, sir, that's the cold, hard reasoning of an adult," Armstrong protested. "No child should be expected to live in a world like that!"

The colonel braced his hands on the sink with his head hung low, his expression pained. "You're also a soldier, Armstrong, and yet you would shut your eyes to the reality of the world we live in?"

"Of course not," Armstrong said, inwardly lamenting the loss of the two newly christened alchemists sitting in that supply truck on their way to the frontlines all those years ago, their hearts filled with hope and youthful optimism. At the time, Mustang's naïve declarations had struck a deep chord with him, and to this day a part of him still believed it.

_Even so, we have to put our faith in our leaders and trust that they will make the right choices._

Armstrong watched Mustang pass a hand over his face wearily before reaching for his jacket and tugging it on, preparing once more to don the cloak of the decorated and stalwart colonel. Armstrong cleared his throat. "You know, sir, there's an old saying passed down through my family..."

"Is this the one about the mustaches?"

"No, indeed," Armstrong chuckled. "My father said it to me on the eve when I was to be sent to the front.  _If one man holds true to what is right, then others will follow him._  A simple and perhaps naïve concept, but one I've never quite been able to discard."

"I see," Mustang said, sounding somewhat intrigued. "And do you think you can be that man?"

"I joined the military for one purpose only," Armstrong went on with conviction. "I want my skills in fighting and alchemy to be used to protect those who can't protect themselves. That's what the military is meant for, and I despise that it's instead being used to further these border campaigns. Perhaps...it's high time for things to change. And the person to bring about that change should be someone who knows the agony of war and will aim for the top with a level head. Don't you agree,  _Colonel?_ "

Mustang turned to him sharply, fingers suddenly still in the act of buttoning his jacket.  _Hughes?_  he mouthed.

Armstrong inclined his head.  _Yes. And you have my support._

Mustang looked away, but not before Armstrong saw the slightest trace of a smirk. "I simply don't know what you mean, Major," he said conversationally.

"I've said too much anyway," Armstrong quipped and made for the door.

"Major," Mustang said with quiet urgency. "When you saw Ed and Al, did you tell them about Brigadier General Hughes?"

Armstrong hesitated. "No...I couldn't bring myself to tell them."

"The Philosopher's Stone's key ingredients are human lives," Mustang said softly, causing Armstrong to stiffen in surprise. "Hughes always did enjoy helping other people. This time he stuck his nose into the Elric brothers' investigation and found out something he would have been better off not knowing. Am I wrong?"

So he knew the truth of it now. Armstrong shut his eyes, throat going tight at the memory of Ed's determined look and Al's quiet resolve. Yet even when they expressed a desire to keep digging further, he hadn't been able to tell them because...

"If they found out that Hughes died trying to help them, they would blame themselves," Mustang said, unknowingly echoing his thoughts. "So in that light, I suppose  _not_  telling them was kind."

Armstrong looked back at the colonel, recognizing that same vengeful streak from the funeral when he demanded answers for the death of his greatest friend and supporter. "Then you're determined to go forward no matter what?"

"I'm getting closer and closer to the truth," Mustang murmured.

"Just be careful, sir," Armstrong said when Mustang joined him at the door. "You never know who might be listening."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mustang said and they parted ways in the corridor. Armstrong resisted the urge to look back at the troubled young man in concern. He had cast his lot now, and for the sake of Hughes and the Elrics, he would see that decision through.

"Major! Major, wait!"

"What is it, Brosh?" Armstrong asked when the sergeant came rushing up to him. "Is something the matter?"

"Something awful's happened!" Brosh exclaimed, nearly frantic. "The MPs have named a suspect in the Hughes murder case."

"They have? But that's good—"

"It's Maria Ross, sir!"

Armstrong stopped in his tracks, and just down the hallway he noticed Mustang do the same. " _What?_  But that's impossible! On what grounds are they accusing her?"

"I-I don't know, sir," Brosh said helplessly. "I haven't gotten the full story yet. They only just took her into custody a few minutes ago in the mess..."

"My subordinate," Armstrong whispered, dazed. He couldn't believe it for a second. Second Lieutenant Ross had been instrumental in aiding the Elric brothers' research and along with Brosh had even retrieved the boys from the fifth laboratory when it collapsed. It was inconceivable to him that she could commit such a heinous crime because that would mean she had been in league with the homunculi all along and that his faith in her as a soldier and person had been entirely misplaced.

Quick footsteps down the hallway made Armstrong look up, but Mustang was already gone, the tail of his uniform whipping around the corner.

* * *

In his wildest imaginings, Armstrong had never dreamed he would one day find himself back in the desert again. And certainly not in the company of a Xingese man, a second lieutenant and one very irritated Fullmetal Alchemist.

"The colonel never said we'd be crossing a border," Ed griped under his breath, slumped over the neck of his mule. "Tight-lipped bastard..."

Lieutenant Breda poured a generous splash of water over his head and chugged down the rest. "Mr. Han, how much further?"

"It's just ahead," came the reply and a pointed finger. "You can see the ruins now."

Ed stood up in the stirrups. "So  _that's_  Xerxes," he murmured. "It looks just like the fable described it."

He spurred his mount onward to keep pace with Han, eager to hasten their arrival, but Armstrong hung back. Noticing his hesitation, Breda also slowed down. "Come on, Major, you know the colonel instructed me to get everyone there safely by nightfall. Go any slower and, superior officer or no, I'll have my mule give yours a nice solid kick."

"I need to ask you something, Second Lieutenant," Armstrong said after a moment. "You seem quite down-to-earth and honest. I'd like to know why you follow a man like Colonel Mustang."

Breda sighed. He leaned forward and swiped Armstrong's reigns to lead him forward. "You're having your doubts?"

"I thought I had finally chosen right, after all these years," Armstrong admitted. "I thought I'd found a leader I could trust. One who would make the right decisions and never take human life for granted. But...Second Lieutenant Ross..."

His throat closed up at the name, and he shut his eyes, too emotionally spent to even shed another tear. Her death had been so  _sudden_. Not even a day had passed after she was arrested and suddenly Ross went from mere suspect to convict and then to nothing more than a pile of charred ash in a back alleyway. Mustang had exacted his vengeance even before Armstrong had a chance to decide for himself whether he believed in her innocence or not. Before it even occurred to him that Mustang could be capable of such a thing. Armstrong simply didn't know  _what_ to believe anymore.

"I would think you'd have figured it out by now, Major," Breda snorted bleakly. "Our leaders are human too. Depending on who you talk to, Mustang is either regarded as a hero or a monster when the truth is he's a little of both. And my loyalty to him will only last for as long as he does. If he doesn't live up to his word or if he dies, I'll have to find myself a new king. That's just the way it works."

"It shouldn't be," Armstrong said, though his words held little conviction.

Breda looked at him gravely. "Take my advice, Major. If you really want things to change, like you told Mustang, then start thinking and judging for yourself instead of expecting someone else to do it for you. Otherwise, you  _and_ him will fall into the same trap as Ishval."

Armstrong stared at the lieutenant, but Breda was focused on their destination. They plodded onward and soon the distant mounds resolved themselves into the crumbling buildings of a lost civilization. A good half of the ruins were buried beneath the sands, and only the main roadways and the occasional well had survived thanks to the tending of passing travelers. Ed fairly fell off his mule and made a beeline for the nearest water trough while Armstrong gazed at the weathered stone structures. Rumored to be the birthplace of alchemy, Xerxes was widely regarded by scholars and a legend among alchemists. Part of him hadn't truly believed in its existence until now.

Breda put his fingers to his lips and let loose a piercing whistle that echoed on and on in the empty city. Ed yelped in the middle of wringing the water from his shirt. "Jeez, Breda!"

"Sorry," Breda said without remorse. Soon a second whistle answered, and within moments an elderly man in odd attire revealed himself. Armstrong didn't recognize him, but someone else did.

"Old man Fu?" Ed blurted out, jogging forward. "What are  _you_  doing way out here?"

"I should say the same," Fu said in dissatisfaction. "Whose idea was it to bring the kid?"

"Direct orders," Breda said long-sufferingly. "Alright, let's head in."

"Head in where?" Ed demanded. "Are you ever going to tell us what's going on?"

"Indeed," Armstrong said, crossing his arms. "The secrecy has gone on long enough, Lieutenant Breda."

"Impatient lot, aren't you?" Breda said, seemingly enjoying their consternation. He motioned for them to follow. "Come on, then. You've both come this far."

The soldiers ventured further into the ruins with Fu, leaving Han behind to watch their mounts. Ed seemed the most fascinated by their surroundings, frequently pausing to examine a few designs that doubtless had their origins in a more primitive form of alchemy. Much of it was beyond Armstrong so he occupied himself with examining the layout of the city itself. The ancient Xerxian people had been truly amazing architects, and his eyes were drawn to the fantastic palace looming over their heads.

"We're going in pretty deep now," Ed said quietly. He sidled up to Armstrong. "Figured out what this is about yet?"

"No, I haven't."

Ed spat an angry oath. "This is ticking me off! Why does Mustang have to be so—"

"Edward!"

They froze in their tracks, and Ed paled at the sight of a raven-haired young woman scrambling down a pile of rubble and loping toward them, hand upraised. It was no mirage, no trick. It was  _her_. Armstrong took one look at Lieutenant Ross' lovely smile and dancing cobalt eyes, and then he couldn't contain himself. With a wordless howl of joy, he sprinted across the sands toward his subordinate.

" _LIEUTENANT ROSS!_ "

Ross halted her approach and backed up a pace with a strained smile. "N-Now, Major," she stammered. "Th-There's no need to get  _too_ carried away..."

He swept her up in a bone-crushing hug, laughing and sobbing all at once. "Thank the heavens! My heart has been congested with grief since the day of your arrest!  _I'm so relieved you're alive!_ "

"Sir—can't—breathe—!"

"I-I can't believe it," Ed cried, grinning widely. "I just can't  _believe_ it! Breda, you bastard! Why didn't you tell us?"

"Mustang knew it'd be easier to convince you if we actually  _showed_ you she was alive," Breda explained, chuckling. "We needed to keep up the pretense until we were over the border anyway, and let's face it kid, you don't have the acting chops. You'd have ended up endangering the entire operation."

"Operation?" Armstrong said while Ed sputtered his indignation. He carefully set Ross down. "Then is there a phase beyond liberating Lieutenant Ross?"

Breda took a seat heavily on a low crumbling wall and waved at the others to join him. "Mustang's got a plan to reel in the puppeteer, the one that's behind the conspiracy. I'll explain all that, and then the colonel wants us to share our Intel. So everyone get comfortable. This could take awhile."

The group gathered around and, after listening to Breda and Ross' account of the daring counterfeit death, they disclosed information freely. This time Armstrong held nothing back in his account of the Fuhrer's raid in Dublith, and he and Ed together shared everything they knew of Lab Five while Breda provided them with what information Mustang had gleaned in his own investigations. Soon they had a tidy pile of scrap paper before them—drawings of the Ouroboros tattoo, the transmutation circle for the Philosopher's Stone and renderings of the homunculi.

"So this one, Envy. He's the one who pulled Ed out of the lab as it collapsed. I remember seeing his tattoo..."

"And this one with the boobs. You said they called her Lust?"

"I can see why. Anyone else noticing a theme with these names?"

"If we can, we should question Dr. Marcoh about the homunculi. He may be able to enlighten us about their objective..."

"You won't get any more information out of this Greed guy. Him and all his associates were killed in the Fuhrer's raid..."

"You know the more I think about it, the more I realize something," Ross said very slowly. She flung her hands up in the air with a frustrated cry. "I have  _nothing_  to do with  _any_  of this! Nothing at all! I'm just a random person who got dragged into it and framed for a murder on top of everything else!"

"So you really  _didn't_ kill Hughes?" Breda inquired, giving her a searching look.

"Of course not!"

"Good, then I can put this away," Breda said nonchalantly, bringing his pistol into the open and clicking the safety on. "You see, if you  _had_ turned out to be the murderer, Mustang had ordered me to shoot you dead after gleaning all the information you knew."

Ross edged away from him uneasily. Hearing a disheartened sigh, Armstrong looked over at Ed. "It's just so hard to believe that Hughes is gone," he murmured. "I had no idea what to say to Mrs. Hughes..."

"You spoke with his wife?" Breda said sharply.

"Yeah," Ed answered. "I told her everything— _ow!_ "

"You moron!" Breda snapped, fist still upraised. "Do you realize how  _dangerous_  that was? What if the enemy decides to interrogate her? This is why I  _hate_ kids, you  _never_ think of the consequences!"

"Look, I  _had_ to!" Ed retorted defensively and rubbed his head. "She deserved to know!"

"Now, Lieutenant, young Edward has a point," Armstrong rumbled. "No matter how dire the circumstances, it would have been cruel to keep her in the dark."

Breda huffed and plopped back down in his seat. "So what'd she say to all this anyway?"

Ed ducked his gaze, studying the white glove covering his automail. "She said...that we should do whatever we think is right. And that's what I intend to do. Al and I committed a terrible sin, but even though most people would condemn us, there have still been many others that have supported us, even if it's only in silence by helping to keep our secret."

At that, he gave Armstrong a quick, grateful look, and the major smiled in encouragement. Ed took a deep breath, looking at them one by one. "All of those people, including Hughes, have done what they could to help me keep my promise to my brother. And giving up now would make all those sacrifices worthless. I can only go forward from here, and I'll protect everyone I can along the way. Maybe that's just my arrogance talking, but I refuse to let another person become a victim. Not as long as I'm alive."

"Well said," Armstrong said warmly. "That was well said, Fullmetal Alchemist."

Ed gave him a thin smile and a half-shrug, a gesture that sparked a sudden déjà vu of another desert and another alchemist with fire in his eyes. For the first time, Armstrong saw the  _man_ inside the boy. And right there he made a vow of his own to protect that innocence, to cherish what he and Mustang had both lost so long ago. He would never let this child take a single step into the kind of hell he had been forced to endure.

He, too, would do what he thought was right. Even if it meant going against everything he had been told was right.

Breda, for his part, scoffed. "Geez. You're just an arrogant little brat, you know that?"

" _Little—!_ "

"But," Breda said loudly, "between you and me, the world could use more straightforward idiots like you. So give it your best shot, kid."

Ed didn't seem to know what to make of that so he stayed silent. Fu got to his feet, squinting at the sun. "It's best if we head out now, Miss Ross. We'll need the daylight for travel."

"Okay," Ross replied. To the other three, she said, "I've decided to take sanctuary in Xing for now."

"I see," Armstrong said, also rising. "Then shall I inform your family of your innocence? I'm sure they must be worried."

Ross hesitated, biting her lip in indecision. But she shook her head with a wavering smile. "No, sir. I want nothing more than for them to know I'm okay, but I'm afraid their knowing too much would place them in danger."

"Very well," Armstrong acknowledged. "Then perhaps just Lieutenant Brosh? He has also been rather depressed since your arrest..."

"No, no!" Ross said hastily, her face coloring. "Don't tell him!  _Everything_  shows on his face, there's no  _way_  he'd be able to keep his mouth shut!"

Everyone laughed at her dismay, using the brief humor to release pent up emotion that would otherwise have been shed in tears. They made their way back out of the ruins to where they had left the mules, and Ross joined Han in packing up their few supplies. Just before mounting, the lieutenant looked back at them all. "Major Armstrong, Lieutenant Breda...would you please deliver a message to the colonel?"

She snapped her shoulders back and her feet together in a formal salute. "I want Colonel Mustang to know how grateful I am for what he's done. If there is any way I can help him, tell him to send for me! I owe him a great debt, and I am willing to put my life on the line to repay it!"

"I will personally deliver your message," Armstrong promised her, returning the salute. "And I give my word that we will abolish you of this crime so that one day you may return to your country with your head held high!"

She nodded as if that was all she could ever hope for, blinking furiously. Ross said her final goodbyes to them all, and Armstrong watched with tears in his eyes as she and Fu mounted their mules and set off across the sands to the east, quickly vanishing among the lengthening shadows cast by the dunes. When they were no longer in sight, the three of them turned to face the blazing sun listing toward the western horizon.

"Are you two ready?" Breda asked, and somehow they understood he wasn't merely talking about the return journey but also what came after.

"Hell yes," Ed said softly. "I'll beat down those homunculus bastards and keep my promise to my brother."

"And I," Armstrong vowed, "I will expose those who murdered General Hughes and framed my subordinate. I will see justice done and build a country where such atrocities will never happen again."

Breda snorted as he led the way forward, and his smile was genuine, if a little rueful. "Idiots, both of you. Just a couple of sappy idiots."


	6. Lieutenant Colonel Maes Hughes

Maes Hughes had a talent. Well actually, he had  _many_ talents, but this was the one he considered the most useful. He had a talent with people. Given the chance, he could ingratiate himself with any group imaginable. It was simple, really. Say what they want to hear, keep an easy-going, laid-back attitude and know when to shut his mouth. That was all it took to fit right in. And Hughes made good use of that skill during his first week in the military academy.

Being in the academy wasn't like being enlisted. The enlisted men and women were taught to shoot a gun and follow orders, all they needed to know to become cannon fodder. But the academy was where you went to become an  _officer_. Those who passed the written and physical at the age of seventeen were guaranteed an education and a decent career in a position to command, a tempting offer for youths with the money to afford it and lacking the desire to endure a grueling year of boot camp.

Which could explain why a good half of the cadets were afflicted with the double curse of laziness and immaturity.

 _It's like being in elementary school all over again,_  Hughes thought as his eyes wandered over the mess. Left to themselves, the cadets momentarily forgot they all wore the same uniform and regressed back to their schoolyard counterparts. The scholars stuck together out of shared interest in their studies, and he could easily pick them out by the books beside their trays and the heated debates waging across their tables. They were a harmless minority. The loudest and most obnoxious tables held the goofs and ne'er-do-wells who had been disciplined more times than anyone could count and yet still managed to hang on by a thread. The brawns were right over there, bragging about their latest feats and conquests and making the people around them uncomfortable with their boasting. The very few women isolated themselves in groups of three or more and stayed as far from the brawns as possible.

"Hey, Hughes. Either eat that quiche or pass it here."

Without looking, Hughes stabbed his fork downward and nearly took off Dean's creeping fingers. He smiled indolently. "Get your own damn quiche."

Dean laughed and sat back, but his expression held an edge of malice as he turned to converse with someone else. And then there were people like him. The entitled ones. The upperclassmen who lorded over their fellow cadets the same way they did their friends and servants at home. In other words, the bullies and their cronies. Not that they would ever call themselves that. They weren't being  _mean_ when they shoved some hapless new kid to the floor and kicked his books around. They were doing him a  _favor_ , helping to toughen him up, showing him his place in the food chain.

God, Hughes despised these people.

But for now, he would go along with them. Hughes wasn't from a wealthy family or physically strong, but he was smart enough to be useful to them and could act tough enough to be accepted by them. He had no other friends as of yet, and until he did, breaking ties with these bastards was asking for trouble.

 _Just think of it as your first undercover mission_ , Hughes told himself.  _You_   _want to be in Investigations, right? Odds are you'll have to deal with a few unsavory characters along the way so better get used to it now._

"We still need to find more people for our field exercise next month," Phelps remarked. "With the way they've split the groups, we'll have to grab at least a couple from another class."

"We've already got Hughes," Dean said, blatantly ignoring the fact that no one had bothered to ask Hughes if he cared to join them. "He can get some more from his year and then we're good. Know anybody, Hughes?"

"Maybe," Hughes said, reluctant to expose any of his classmates to Dean. He scanned around quickly and nodded at the first familiar face he saw. "We could take Roy Mustang. He seems alright."

Heads turned toward the pale, black-haired cadet. Though he sat at a table full of people, his rigid posture screamed,  _Having a bad day, leave me the hell alone._  Hughes almost felt bad for cutting in front of him to take the last slice of quiche. Almost.

"Forget it," Dean said at once. "We're not taking  _him_."

"Why not?" Hughes asked, trying not to sound too interested.

"He's studying to be an alchemist."

"So? I'd think that could be useful."

Phelps shook his head emphatically while the younger man beside him, Chris, cleared his throat. "Take our advice, Hughes. You don't want to get mixed up with those freaks."

Hughes almost pressed him for more, but fell silent at Dean's warning glare. Strange. Outcasts were normally treated with contempt and mockery, but this avoidance was something new. Hughes took another peek at the dark-haired cadet, and found himself under the unflinching scrutiny of those dark eyes that somehow managed to be icy and smoldering at the same time. Damn, he must have really wanted that quiche.

Or maybe not. Mustang's eyes flicked around to Hughes' seatmates, dislike etched into every nuance of his expression. So he had met them before, and clearly he was not impressed. Hughes felt his lips quirk. So  _that_  was it. Dean and the other seniors were  _afraid_ of Mustang. Not necessarily of his alchemic prowess, but simply of the fact that he refused to submit. The common bully required fear to hang onto his power, but this Roy Mustang had turned their own weapon against them and in doing so had made himself untouchable.

Now  _this_ could get interesting. With just the right amount of prodding, maybe Hughes wouldn't have to be the one to put these tyrants in their place after all.

Mustang cocked his head, frowning when Hughes didn't look away. Hughes smirked lazily and purposely relaxed his posture, lifting his chin in bold challenge.  _I'm not afraid of you._

Across the mess, one black eyebrow arched.  _Oh, really?_

Hughes sliced off a nice big bite of quiche with his fork and stuck it in his mouth, chewing with relish.  _Yes, really._

An eager grin stole over Mustang's face, and his eyes lit up with competitive spirit.  _You will be._

* * *

The following weeks passed in a haze of drilling, studying, sometimes eating, occasionally sleeping, and even more drilling. The routine left Hughes in a perpetual state of exhaustion, and he began to wonder if that wasn't the whole point. To make him stop thinking and simply  _do_. Those who couldn't hack it were quickly weeded out, and more than once Hughes came close to joining them. He hadn't expected the academy to be  _this_ taxing.

Ironically enough, the only thing that kept him going was Roy Mustang. Every time he looked over his shoulder, there was the snide little prick taunting him without words.  _Giving up already? Oh well, more quiche for me_. Then Hughes would suck it up and push himself harder if only to wipe the smirk off his face. The classroom lectures became silent contests of will, neither of them daring to nod off or let their attention wander in case the other called them out in front of the instructor and earned the weakling forty push-ups right there in the classroom.

Back and forth they went, one-upping each other every chance they got. Sometimes things got nasty. Such as when Mustang was chosen to lead the long distance march and set a grueling pace that left Hughes—not to mention half the men—on the verge of vomiting or collapsing or both. Or when Hughes "accidentally" let his weapon discharge right beside Mustang as he cleaned it, scaring the shit out of the alchemist and causing him to drop a very heavy crate full of ammo on their sergeant's foot. They both paid dearly for that one.

But for all the danger and deviltry and the many embarrassing moments...Hughes was having  _fun_. And he wasn't the only one. The malice in his and Mustang's interactions gradually diminished, giving way to something more lighthearted and genuine. Soon the other cadets had trouble keeping up with  _them_ on the drills, and both their grades steadily improved as they found their focus. Their banter was making them better soldiers, and that was perhaps the best part about it.

Still, no matter how he pushed and prodded, no matter how often Hughes made sure he was seen associating with Dean and the other seniors, Mustang refused to take the bait. And Hughes could see in his eyes that he wanted to. Every time the seniors persecuted another cadet while their instructors sat back and did  _nothing_ , he could tell Mustang was dying to set them in their place. But he  _still_ held back, and damned if it wasn't ticking Hughes off.

"Hey, have you guys noticed Mustang and that Ishvalan hanging out lately?" Phelps said one afternoon as they were cleaning their weapons after shooting practice. Hughes glanced up from his disassembled rifle. Not far down the range were the two in question. The Ishvalan—Heiss Clif, that was his name—lay on his stomach and worked on perfecting his aim while Mustang knelt to the side and gave him pointers.

"We haven't been able to get near him since they became friends," Chris muttered under his breath, disgruntled.

Dean snorted, upper lip curling. "Mustang probably thinks he's some kind of saint, looking after the underdog. It makes me sick. Without his help, that Ishvalan wouldn't even have lasted this long. He'd be on his way back to that backwater sandbox where he belongs..."

Hughes kept his head low over his rifle. Heiss Clif had been a thorn in Dean's side since the beginning. Never mind that he was a quiet and modest man who kept mostly to himself. His mere presence was enough to ruffle their feathers because an Ishvalan's success at the academy threatened to overturn all of their narrow-minded preconceptions about the recently annexed nation and its people. And  _that_  just wouldn't do.

"Cadet Hughes, aren't you done yet?"

Hughes hastily slotted the last component into place and presented his rifle for inspection. The sergeant snorted. "Pitiful! I've seen you clean and reassemble that in a third of the time! Clearly, you need more practice. Let's see you do that again."

"Yes sir," Hughes said neutrally and, once again, dismantled the rifle. The seniors had already locked up their weapons and were free to head to the mess for lunch, and Hughes knew better than to think they would save him a slice of quiche. Or a seat.

"Mustang, what in the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Ah, sorry sir! I was just showing him—"

"You're here to shoot, not babysit! See that ammo crate? I want that emptied into that target before you leave, is that clear?"

"The...the  _whole_ crate, sir?"

"Should keep you busy straight through lunch, shouldn't it? You can eat the shell casings if you get hungry, and be grateful it's not the rations they get on the front!"

Uh oh. Hughes looked up sharply and caught the gleeful look Dean gave his friends as Heiss Clif put away his weapon and bid farewell to Mustang, his only protection. The Ishvalan left the range, and the seniors sauntered after him, for all the world like they weren't planning on dragging that poor kid to some isolated corner for a "lesson". Granted, Hughes doubted they would go very far. It was more about humiliation and establishing their supremacy than it was about causing actual harm. Already they had half the cadets eating out of their hands like whipped dogs, and there seemed no end in sight.

But it  _had_ to end.

When all the cadets had filed out, the sergeant returned and hovered while Hughes dutifully cleaned and reassembled his rifle two more times before his work was pronounced satisfactory. Hughes locked the weapon up, watching carefully as the sergeant gathered up a few crates and vanished around the corner. When he didn't return right away, Hughes stole across the range and crouched beside Mustang. The alchemist ignored him, glaring through the scope at his target with single-minded intensity.

"You know they're going after your friend, right?" Hughes said earnestly.

A slight paused in the rhythm of the shots. "What do you care?" Mustang muttered. "I'm surprised you haven't gone to join them."

"I'm not like them," Hughes insisted, frowning when Mustang merely snorted. "I'm not! Those guys need to be stopped before they really hurt someone, and I think  _you_ have the best chance of doing that. Do you realize they only stopped harassing Heiss Clif because you were hanging out with him?"

Mustang reloaded his weapon and didn't say a word. Hughes threw up his hands. "Fine. If that's the way you feel, I guess your friend'll get his ass handed to him..."

"And what do you expect me to do?" Mustang demanded. He whirled around to glare at Hughes. "Five on one aren't exactly the best odds! I can't beat them!"

"You don't  _need_ to beat them! Just fighting them will be enough to make them back down!"

"So why haven't  _you_ done it?" Mustang shot back viciously. "I don't see  _you_ standing up to anyone when you go sit with them in the mess, when you take their damn notes and bow and scrape at their feet. You're even worse of a coward than they are!"

 _Coward._  That one word rang in his ears like a bell tolling, and Hughes clenched his jaw as he glared hotly at the line of targets. This wasn't going the way he planned. He had hoped to get Mustang riled up enough until he was ready to stomp all over the seniors. He hadn't expected the tables to be turned on  _him_. God, he  _had_ been a coward. Hadn't that been the whole point of this rivalry? So he wouldn't have to stand up Dean himself?

"Why are you doing this anyway?" Mustang asked him, suspicion coloring his tone. "If this is just some screwed up plan to get me to rush off and get ambushed by your friends..."

"What have I  _ever_ done to you?" Hughes snapped. "Aside from stealing your quiche, that is."

"Are you telling me all the crap you've been putting me through since day one has been...what, just a game?"

"Aw, come on," Hughes cajoled, shrugging. "You can't tell me you didn't have a  _little_ fun with that?"

Mustang considered him for a long moment, possibly trying to dredge up some kind of argument. But he sighed gustily, a small smile tugging at his mouth. "So...you're really not my enemy?"

"Put it this way," Hughes said frankly. "I'd much rather be your friend."

Mustang barked a laugh and shoved his rifle in Hughes' hands, followed by his cap. "Okay,  _friend_. Cover for me! I've got some evil seniors to put in their place."

"Don't get killed!" Hughes called as Mustang sprinted off. Hearing the sergeant returning, Hughes settled down on his stomach with the cap pulled low to keep up the illusion of Mustang still firing his assigned rounds. Part of him wanted to rush off and see how it all played out, but at least this way Mustang would have a chance to confront them without any interference...

A shadow fell across him. "Why, Mustang," the sergeant drawled. "I never knew you needed glasses. No wonder your aim is so shoddy."

...oh, great. Just  _great_. The cap was whisked off his head, and Hughes slowly clambered to his feet to face his inevitable.

"You know," the sergeant said slowly. "Being a turncoat is always more fun when you're there to see the looks on their faces."

Hughes jerked, and the sergeant chuckled at his astonishment and waved his hand. "We instructors see far more than you give us credit for. Now off with you! And next time I see you two, you'd better be the ones at the top of the pack around here!"

"Y-Yes, sir!" Hughes stammered with a sketchy salute, and then he was off and running.

Much later, sometime between the heated brawl and the trip to the infirmary (the seniors limping and whining the whole way while he and Mustang grinned like idiots through their bruises), the necessary reporting and expected chewing out (made all the more entertaining as the sergeant tried not to laugh at the thoroughly whipped seniors), and the long evening hours spend digging out their punishment trench, he and Mustang reached an understanding. And the dark-haired cadet with the potential to become so much more simply became Roy.

* * *

" _They took my leg! Those savages, those damned Ishvalan dogs! Let me go back, I'll rip them apart—!_ "

"Who the hell is making all that noise?" Harris griped wearily, swirling the sandy water in his tin without interest.

Hughes squinted in the general direction of the hoarse shouts. Two stone-faced soldiers hauled a stretcher through the encampment in the direction of the medical tent, and he sighed. "Comanche. If he has the energy to yell like that, he must be alright."

"Not much left of his leg though," Casey remarked grimly.

"He's lucky," Hughes replied, not bothering to voice the rest of his selfish thought.  _At least he can go home now._

Another soldier joined their languishing group, someone Hughes hadn't met before. "Comanche's one of the State Alchemists, right? Silver something or other?"

"Yeah," Casey said with a rare burst of enthusiasm. "I saw one of those guys up close. They're incredible! Even more effective than the heavy artillery!"

"Really?" Harris snorted. "I kind of doubt that. There's no way one man could wield  _that_ kind of power."

"Say that to an alchemist's face, I dare you," Casey goaded him, laughing. Hughes planted his chin in his palm, frowning at the familiar turn this conversation was taking. It seemed he heard this more and more lately. Everyone praised the alchemists for their work here on the Ishvalan front. They were amazing, a godsend, everything their army could hope for, but  _don't get too close to them._ They were dangerous, they were unstable, they were all kinds of things that no sane human would want to be around. It gave him a bad taste in his mouth. Of course, that could always just be the crappy rations, but still...

He blinked and got up from his crate, craning his head over the crowd as a dark-haired  _someone_ strolled past. "Hey, Roy! Is that you?"

"Hughes, what are you doing?"

"I'll be back," Hughes said and hurried off. He cupped his hands around his mouth so his words would carry. "Roy!  _Roy Mustang!_ "

Roy paused and turned to face him, and Hughes hesitated when there was no immediate recognition. It hadn't been all that long since they last saw each other...but a great deal had happened in the interim, what seemed an entire century of war. Even Hughes sometimes had trouble remembering his life before this godforsaken desert.

But then the dazed look vanished, and Roy favored him with a small but genuine smile. "Hughes! So you got sent out too. I  _thought_  I sensed my impending doom approaching."

"Nah, that's just your indigestion acting up," Hughes snickered, nudging him with his elbow. "Our sergeant wasn't kidding about the rations out here. I was  _this close_ to eating my shell casings the other day!  _This close!_ "

Roy laughed, but it was a weak thing, barely a flicker of mirth. Hughes watched carefully as Roy stripped off his gloves and put them away in his pockets, noting the arrays stitched to the back. Of course by now  _everyone_ had heard of the Flame Alchemist. Hughes himself had witnessed the devastating firestorms lighting up the horizon, but it was so hard to connect that mindless monster of war with the idealist cadet he had met all those years ago.

But it seemed that cadet had found an early grave. In his place was a world-weary soldier who had seen a lifetime of bloodshed, who moved with the uneasy edge of a hunted animal and automatically scanned Hughes for weapons despite their status as comrades. Dark eyes lingered over the gun holster and the almost indiscernible folds in his clothes where his knives were safely stowed, and he knew Roy was noting the changes in him just as Hughes was.

"You look...different since I last saw you," Hughes said lamely.

"So do you," Roy said softly, looking down at their reflections in the water trough. "You look like a murderer."

Hughes bit his lip. Of course he did. They  _all_ did, and Roy most of all. He started to say something, but hesitated, glancing around. The group of soldiers he had been sitting with were eyeing Hughes and Roy in disbelief, and there was a noticeable bubble around the two of them. A quick look at Roy told him the alchemist was perfectly aware of the shunning and trying not to be bothered by it.

"Let's go for a walk."

Roy nodded tersely and let him lead on. There weren't many places they could go. Within the encampment, it was so crowded it was impossible to find a quiet corner to converse so they struck out for the perimeter, passing and acknowledging the sweltering sentries. Beyond the boundaries of the camp, death reigned supreme. Their camp was settled right in the middle of a conquered district, and the bodies of the enemy had been left to rot in the sun. Hughes kept his head up and pretended not to notice the blackened blood on the rocks and the putrid reek of decay. But Roy lingered over the bodies with an utterly empty look, pausing when something small and scaly skittered up a dead child's leg.

"It  _has_ been awhile," Hughes said with forced cheerfulness, drawing the alchemist's eyes upward. "But it's coming back to me now, all the scrapes we got into at the academy. We were such kids back then."

Roy gulped, looking like he wanted to say something, but he seemed to let it go and dredged up another smile. "Back then, we'd talk all about our plans once we graduated. Whenever we looked forward, our dreams for the future always looked so bright and promising. And now..."

His eyes drifted back to the encampment, and Hughes reluctantly finished that train of thought. "Yeah. I guess this isn't quite the 'beautiful future' we were hoping for."

"Let me ask you something, Hughes," Roy said abruptly. "The purpose of our deployment was to suppress a small rebellion...at least, that's what  _I_  was told. So why have  _all_ the State Alchemists been deployed? Why are we  _systematically_ destroying each and every city, town and hovel we've come across?"

"It  _does_  seem a little excessive," Hughes said carefully, disconcerted by this sudden shift. "I suppose someone up top must have thought it was a good idea."

"Ishval has no significant natural resources," Roy pressed. "Its land is barren, its people isolated and far less advanced than us. It would make far more sense to establish a peace treaty and leave them the hell alone, especially when we've ongoing border disputes to the south and west to worry about."

Hughes rubbed his chin, avoiding Roy's gaze. "Well, maybe they hope to use this as a base for trade with the eastern nations...?"

"Then why scorch it to rubble? Why murder an entire nation that  _knows_ this land to the last pebble?"

"I...I don't know!" Hughes finally admitted. He heaved a frustrated sigh and let his hand fall to slap his leg. "Damn, you always did ask the hardest questions, you know that?"

"Someone has to," Roy replied with a helpless sort of shrug. "There are times when I think I'm the only one who does anymore."

"Lieutenant Hughes, wait!"

"I'm a captain now!" Hughes informed the man jogging up to them.

"Oh, my apologies, sir," the soldier said with a hasty salute. He passed Hughes and envelope. "This just came for you on the mail truck. I'd better be heading back now."

"Sure, sure," Hughes said distractedly. His eyes raked over the return address and shouted in delight. " _Ha, ha!_  Feast your eyes on  _my_ beautiful future!"

"Gracia?" Roy said in bemusement. "Your girlfriend?"

"Soon to be  _Mrs. Hughes,_ " Hughes corrected him smugly. "Just as soon as I get back home and propose to her! She's waiting patiently for me in Central! Waiting all by herself...waiting...oh God, I should have asked for her hand before I left, shouldn't I? What if some  _jerk_ tries to muscle in on her? A beautiful woman all alone in Central, she must have every guy in the  _city_ asking her out!  _No, I can't have that—!_ "

"Hughes," Roy cut through his rant impatiently. "Have you ever read a war novel in your life? It's a known fact that soldiers who go on and on about their families are usually the very  _first_ to die. So shut up."

Hughes glowered at him, clutching his letter protectively. " _Not_ funny. How do you expect me to make it through the days here without talking about her? These letters are food for my soul!"

"I'm not even going to  _begin_ to explain how unscientific that theory is."

"Come on, Roy, everyone needs  _something_  to live for. And how about you? Got anyone waiting for you?"

Roy paused. "Well..."

A rustle behind them was their only warning. Hughes spun around when one of the corpses suddenly revived itself and charged with a knife held high. Roy raised his hand and his eyes widened in horror. Of course, his gloves were still in his pocket. Hughes dropped the letter to draw his knives, but the attack was coming too fast, the blade arcing for Roy's neck...

_Bang!_

The gunshot was faint, almost an afterthought, but its results were immediate. The Ishvalan fell, this time with a hole in his skull. Hughes and Roy both froze, and then the latter dove for cover. "Where'd that shot come from?" he hissed. "Hughes, get down! It could be the enemy!"

"Everything's fine, Roy," Hughes said, sheathing his knife. He waved at a tower far in the distance and was answered by flashes of light reflected off a mirror, a brief code identifying the shooter. "We're safe. We've got the Hawk's eye watching over us."

Roy looked at him sharply. "Did you say  _Hawk's_  eye?"

"Yeah. I'm surprised you haven't heard of her. A real ace sharpshooter they pulled out of the academy to bring to the front. She's practically a kid still, but once she's got her eye on you, she never lets you die."

Roy came out of hiding slowly, following Hughes' line of sight to the tower where the sniper resided. "I'd like to meet her," he said after a pregnant pause. "Soon."

"Uh, sure...I guess we'd better thank her anyway," Hughes said, confused by Roy's sudden stillness. He knelt down to scoop up his letter. Aside from a little sand, it seemed unharmed, and he gave Gracia's name a quick smooch before tucking the envelope safely in his coat. "Let's head back before any more of these corpses get ideas."

"Okay," Roy answered, but he still took the time to lean down and shut the dead Ishvalan's eyes. And for some reason, this pointless show of empathy disturbed Hughes even more than their close call while the man had been alive.

* * *

Hughes tapped his pencil nub against his knee in a rapid beat that did nothing to dispel his tentmate's snoring. It had taken a week to scrounge up a clean, unused scrap of paper so he could write a letter to Gracia, yet now that he had a free moment to write it, the words just wouldn't come. Numbly, Hughes set aside his writing utensils and leaned back on his bedroll, unfolding Gracia's letter so he could scan the graceful words on floral stationary. Gracia, bless her, never pressed him for gruesome details about the battlefield. Her letters painted a tapestry of her life in Central and their plans for the future and hopes for his safe return, words that had the power to tuck him away in his own little elated cloud and gave him the strength to keep going for another day.

But tonight, not even that had been enough to push the demons back. This past week had been...bad.  _Really_  bad. His reunion with Roy should have been joyful, but instead the alchemist's unanswerable questions whirled endlessly in his head. Now Hughes had  _no_ excuse for turning a blind eye to the horrors around him, telling himself it was for the good of the country and it was in his best interest to just keep his head down and survive.

 _Once again, I've been the coward,_  Hughes thought bitterly. But what could he do? Only one man had the power to stop this war, and Fuhrer Bradley didn't seem very inclined to mercy at the moment. Hell, the old man had  _joined_ them on the front not long ago to take full command of the troops and hasten the extermination. The soldiers were exhausted day and night, and morale was at its lowest. Now it wasn't uncommon for Hughes to drift off to sleep to the sound of scuffles and raised voices through the canvas walls...

He sat bolt upright. Wait, he  _knew_ that raised voice. Stuffing Gracia's letter beneath his pillow, Hughes flicked off the lantern and left the tent to find the source. His heart sank when his exploration led him to the area of the camp where the lower ranks bunked and to one female sniper's tent in particular.

" _—never asked you to follow me into a war!_  What the hell were you  _thinking?_  I never wanted this for you—!"

Hughes shoved the flap aside. The first thing he saw was Hawkeye's rigid back, which he moved to flank against a very angry Flame Alchemist. "Roy, enough."

"Stay out of this, Hughes!" Roy said sternly. "This is between us."

"Not when half the army overhears it!" Hughes shot back. "Look, I don't know what this is about, but if any of our superiors hear you going off like this, it'll only mean trouble for you  _and_ her."

"She's nothing more than a child!" Roy hissed, and Hawkeye stiffened. "And those  _bastards_  put a gun in her hands and made her into a murderer! The first chance I get, I'm getting her out of here—"

"No."

Roy's words were choked off, and Hughes looked at the sniper in surprise when she raised her head. "I'm sorry, Major Mustang, but you are wrong," she said calmly, her words unimaginably mature and filled with sorrow. "It was always my choice to take up my weapons in defense of my country, so don't lay the blame on our superiors. Or yourself, for that matter."

Roy took two quick steps forward and grasped her shoulders, shaking her. "Damn it, it  _is_ my fault! You said it yourself, you're only here because of what I said to you the day your father died, when you entrusted me with his research..."

He cut himself off with a guarded look at Hughes, whose eyebrows flew up at the hesitancy. But apparently he wasn't privy to whatever secret lay there because Roy pulled away from Hawkeye entirely and stomped past them both. "Fine, do what you want. I guess there's no use trying to cleanse your hands now."

Hawkeye shrank back at that statement and dropped to her knees limply after Roy left. Hughes squeezed her shoulder in pitiful comfort before pursuing his friend. He followed the hurried footsteps through the twilight to a copse of trees and a foul-smelling trench that served as the camp's privy where he discovered Roy leaning hard against one of the trunks and heaving his guts all over the sands.

"She saw  _everything,_ " Roy rasped. He wiped his mouth, shuddering. "She could see it all, up there in her tower. For  _months_ she's watched me raze this land to the ground!"

"She saw you doing your duty, Roy, nothing more," Hughes said without conviction. "She's a soldier now too, she must understand..."

"Why hasn't she  _killed_ me yet?" Roy burst out, shocking him. "Oh, don't give me that look, Hughes! She's had all the opportunity in the world to put a bullet in my head. She could have let that Ishvalan kill me the other day, even. After all I've done to betray her trust, she should want me dead more than anyone else in this damn war!"

Hughes seized his coat and forcibly spun him around so they were face to face. "Are you telling me you think you  _deserve_ to die? You've been brooding over that all this time? That's no way to deal with it!"

"And how  _should_ I be dealing with it, Hughes?" Roy retorted angrily, shoving him back. "Enlighten me, why don't you? I'm not like you, I can't just cram it all down inside and pretend everything's okay! Or would you rather I be like Kimbley and learn to take joy in murder? Is  _that_ a better way to deal with it?"

"No, of course not—!"

"Because I could, you know," Roy went on, suddenly frighteningly calm. "Up until now I've been holding on because I thought I had something to return to when this was all over. But now...seeing her here...knowing I'll never be able to lie to her like I'm sure you'll lie to Gracia..."

"I don't want to hear you talk like that," Hughes said sternly, but his words still wavered. "This isn't like you."

Roy chuckled bitterly, a slightly manic gleam in his eye. "No, it isn't, but it sure as hell is a lot easier than being me. Sometimes I think it would  _all_ be easier if I just didn't  _care_ so damn much. Maybe if I kill enough, if I cause enough suffering and smell enough blood and scorched flesh, maybe  _then_ I could look at this like a job and it wouldn't  _hurt_ all the time."

"Are you  _hearing_  yourself, Roy?" Hughes said with increasing desperation. "I hope to God you are because you're starting to sound exactly like that psychotic bastard! Look, you had some shocks this week. First seeing Hawkeye, and then that whole mess with Heiss Clif...you're allowed to have a breakdown. You just need to calm down and get some rest."

"Or maybe  _you_ need to shut up," Roy said coolly, and Hughes recoiled when he slowly donned his white glove and held it up between them, a gesture that amounted to a loaded gun at his temple. "You  _know_ I could do it. One snap and this whole camp goes up in flames, and everyone with it. Wouldn't it be better that way? Stop her pain, stop  _my_ pain and take out a chunk of the army in the process,  _maybe_  enough to give the Ishvalans a chance."

Hughes wrenched his eyes away from the array, heart racing. He fully believed it. He had seen it for himself, he  _knew_  Roy had it in his power to kill them all in one agonizing instant. Blinding instinct begged him to run and save himself from this madman, but something in Roy's eyes kept him rooted to the spot. There was so much  _pain_  there, so much horror, two things that had been completely absent from Kimbley's eyes. Somewhere within this demon, the optimistic cadet still lived, buried beneath the last shreds of sanity and searching desperately for something to believe in.

Hughes eased closer, flinching when alchemic power sparked from the array. "Aren't you going to run?" Roy said harshly.

"No, I'm not," Hughes said, smiling a little in apology. "You won't get rid of me that easily, you idiot."

"Why  _not?_ " Roy demanded, almost begged. "Why do you have to be so  _trusting_ , damn you! Here I am threatening to  _incinerate_ you, and you still think I'm worth saving?"

Hughes reached out slowly and closed his fingers around Roy's wrist, but that was all. The gloved hand remained poised just at his throat. "Of course I think that. And unless I mistake my guess, so does Hawkeye. Roy, you don't have the  _capacity_ to become someone like Kimbley no matter how many lives you take. I believe that to the core of my soul. But if you want to prove me wrong..."

He left the sentence open. Roy looked rapidly between his hand and Hughes, horrified comprehension slowly dawning. In one motion he ripped the glove off and flung it away. "I...oh  _God_ , Hughes, I was going to...I would have...!"

"But you  _didn't_ , and that's all that matters," Hughes said and embraced him tightly. Roy shook his head, a muffled sob escaping him as he clung to Hughes, all the painful emotions that had been building in the past week finally  _released_  in a thoroughly nondestructive way. By the time he regained his composure, he was so emotionally spent that he seemed close to passing out on the spot. Hughes dutifully looked the other way so Roy could erase his tears and save his dignity, and when they reentered the camp, they were just two more soldiers trading half-hearted jokes. But Roy still clapped his shoulder in silent gratitude before he took himself into his tent. Knowing they would never speak of this and also knowing there was no need to, Hughes continued on.

Once he was out of earshot, he took a detour to throw up. Panic attack dealt with, Hughes crawled into his tent and curled up on his bedroll. A crinkling beneath his ear reminded him of the letter he had yet to write, and Hughes smiled just the tiniest bit as he flicked on the lantern and retrieved the pencil.

_My most breathtakingly gorgeous and exquisite Gracia (don't roll your eyes, you know it's true!),_

_You'll never believe who I was talking to when I got your last letter. Remember Roy Mustang, the best friend I never got a chance to introduce you to? He's a Major now, and a State Alchemist, but he's still the same sanctimonious prick he always was. The second Roy saw me, he said something about his "impending doom" approaching, whatever the heck that means. Maybe he's just grumpy I wasn't impressed with his fancy circles._

_Once I come home, we'll all have dinner together so I can introduce you two properly. And don't be fooled by his "suave man with the ladies" act either. He's always like that around beautiful women, but baby, you are SO out of his league—_

"Hughes, shut off the damn light," his tentmate grumbled.

"In a minute," Hughes said tersely. He needed this far more than he needed sleep.

* * *

In the long months following that night, the war escalated. The Ishvalans had stopped merely trying to defend themselves. Knowing it was hopeless, they put everything they had into murdering as many Amestrians as possible. Roy was called off to another sector to replace an alchemist taken out in a suicide attack, and Hughes cycled through so many new commanding officers that the faces blurred in his memory. He just counted himself lucky to still be alive.

But he doubted he would stay that way much longer, and it was all because of his current commander, Brigadier General Fessler. Here they were holed up in a wrecked temple in the Kanda district, surrounded by the shrouded bodies of their fallen comrades, and the arrogant fool  _refused_  to order a retreat. Hughes ground his teeth painfully as the second-in-command tried to talk some sense into their idiot general.

"Sir, with all due respect, we have to call off the attack! The Ishvalans have entrenched themselves and our last attempt to break through left us decimated—"

"I don't want to hear any of that  _shit!_ " Fessler roared, pacing back and forth. "We  _attack!_  We finish the job we set out to do! I've already called for another State Alchemist. Once he gets here, then we'll show those  _maggots_ the spirit of the Amestrian army!"

 _It literally will be our spirits if we keep going like this,_  Hughes thought, cold rage and sick fear making his gut churn. Maybe some leaders thought charging into certain death was nobler than retreat, but Fessler didn't even have the decency to pretend he cared about their honor, or even their lives. It was all about  _winning_.

"He's here! Colonel Gran has arrived with his squad!"

"Finally!" Fessler cried when Gran came striding in through a back door. " _Now_ we can get moving! We've got a ragtag pack of Ishvalans holding the square up ahead—"

"What's our current status?" Gran interrupted, not acknowledging Fessler's outrage at being interrupted by a lower rank. He cast a critical eye over the body bags lining the temple walls. "Looks like I can rightly assume  _not good_."

"We've lost a good half of our men," Hughes supplied quickly. "The enemy numbers are unknown, and each time we attempt to flank them, they outmaneuver us in the back streets or else ambush us with explosives."

"Pah, run and hide tactics!" Gran scoffed, adjusting his gauntlets. "We'll just have to hit 'em with something they can't counter. Round up everyone we've got left and follow me! I'll smash straight through their lines while you soldiers mop them up from behind."

"Yes, excellent!" Fessler put in with aplomb. "We'll do exactly that!"

And by that, of course, Fessler meant he would sit back in the temple with a small detachment for protection while  _they_ went out and fought for their lives. Hughes retrieved his rifle wearily only to have Gran shove him back. "You, Captain! Keep your squad here and guard the General!"

"Yes, sir!" Hughes said gratefully, hearing relieved sighs from his subordinates. He traded his gun for a pair of binoculars and watched Gran leave the temple and lead the charge. His alchemy was truly a stunning sight to behold, high caliber weapons transmuted in the blink of an eye that crushed the Ishvalans like so many ants.

"Wow, that's amazing!" Second Lieutenant Belmot said in awe. "Why didn't we call for him earlier?"

"Remind the squads to stick close to the colonel!" Hughes called to the soldiers manning the radios. "He's only one man, one bullet is all it takes!"

"Fuck it, Hughes, the man can take care of himself!" Fessler whooped. "Look at him go! Keep pushing the attack!"

Hughes resisted the urge to punch his commanding officer with difficulty. The man was an animal! Sure Gran was doing alright, but what about all the ordinary soldiers who would die if he refused to let up the attack?

"Sir, we've lost contact with the Isaac squad in the southern sector! And in the west, Henry squad is pinned down and asking for reinforcements!"

Fessler snarled in frustration. "Morons, I'm working with morons! Hughes, get your butt out there—!"

" _Wait!_ " one soldier exclaimed. The man listened intently to his earphones then looked up at Fessler incredulously. "Sir...Gran's squad is reporting a white flag being waved by a small contingent who bear the holy crest of Ishvala."

"They surrendered?" Hughes repeated dumbly. Since when did Ishvalans  _surrender?_

"I don't care  _what_  kind of flag they're waving!" Fessler snapped. "Tell Gran he's not to halt his attack!"

"He already has!"

" _He WHAT?_ " Fessler bellowed, frightening the poor man out of his wits. "Why that arrogant, pigheaded—!"

"What are the conditions of the surrender?" Hughes asked while Fessler went off on his rant. "Has Gran searched them for weapons and explosives?"

"I don't know yet, and yes sir. The Ishvalans were unarmed, and Colonel Gran is escorting them here."

This brought on another litany of curses from Fessler. Hughes watched him pace around the temple, fingers clenched as if he longed to strangle someone. It was a tense twenty minutes before Gran's squad finally arrived with at least six Ishvalans, each donned in robes only the holiest of men and women were permitted to wear. All had their hands tied, but they came without a struggle. The eldest and most serene of them all stepped forward, and Hughes started when he recognized him.

"You're...you're the Supreme Cleric, Logue Lowe!"

Ishvala's head prophet nodded slowly. "That is correct, young man. I come before you on behalf of what remains of my people."

"He requests an audience with Fuhrer King Bradley to negotiate an end to the hostilities," Gran said neutrally, but his eyes were narrow as he watched Fessler. "As the head of the Ishvalan people, he has the right—"

" _I don't care if he's Ishvala in all his holiness!_ " Fessler shouted, nearly spitting in his rage. "You were  _not_ ordered to stop your attack, Colonel! You get your ass back out there and  _take the Kanda district!_  And while you're at it, take these dogs out back and shoot them! Go, now!  _All_ of you!"

No one moved. Not even Gran twitched a muscle. Only Fessler seemed ignorant to the disgusted looks he was receiving, the subtle shift of power unfolding. He gestured wildly, still shouting. "What are you  _waiting_ for?  _I'm_  the commanding officer here,  _I_  give the orders, and I expect to be  _obeyed—!_ "

"An interesting statistic, General Fessler," Gran said dispassionately. "Did you know that half of all officer deaths on the battlefield are attributed to assassination by subordinates?"

_Bang!_

The blank shock on Fessler's face as Gran's bullet went straight though his heart would have been funny if only the circumstances weren't so dire. Fessler's body crumpled to the ground at Gran's feet. The Ishvalans were clearly stunned, and the Amestrians merely vindictive.

"That was a stray bullet," Hughes declared stonily, and his comrades nodded. They were not stupid. A way to end the war had been dropped into their laps, and Hughes knew he was not alone in his desire to lay down his arms and go home.

"Indeed," Gran said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Now that Fessler's dead, I suppose I have no choice but to take command. Second Lieutenant Belmot, you take charge of the injured. Captain Hughes, I entrust your squad to escort Logue Lowe and his people to the Fuhrer. And let's all pray those negotiations go well."

"Sir," Hughes acknowledged, signaling his squad. They surrounded the Ishvalans and, respectfully but firmly, guided them out of the temple and through the secured portions of the Kanda district. Other soldiers on patrol stared at the passing party in amazement when they recognized Ishvala's prophet, but no one made any move to stop them. They knew what this meant, and they knew better than to jeopardize it. Quite a few even joined them until they had what qualified as an honor guard guiding them on their way.

With so many watchful eyes, Hughes allowed his guard to relax slightly and matched his steps with Logue. "I hope you realize it's going to take more than words to sway the Fuhrer," he said quietly. "What do you plan to offer?"

"My head, of course," Logue answered plainly. "My life in exchange for that of my people. Ishvala willing, I shall be the last casualty in this war. I trust your Fuhrer will not be dissatisfied?"

Hughes almost stopped in his tracks. It was such an unbelievable,  _ludicrous_ thing to say that his first reaction was to laugh. Logue didn't say another word, nor did his expression hold any trace of deceit, pride or even fear. This was a man who had weighed all his options and decided in all rationality that his life simply wasn't worth protecting when so many others could be saved. And, Hughes realized, Logue would not only be saving his own people but also countless Amestrians. If he pulled this off, Hughes could finally return home to Gracia, and he was gripped by an almost fanatical urge to kneel at the man's feet and kiss the ground he walked on.

Well, he couldn't exactly do  _that_. That would be absurd. Without taking his eyes off their path, he reached up and removed his cap respectfully. "Thank you."

Logue nodded, his eyes crinkled in understanding. Word had spread by the time they reached the encampment, and soldiers crowded in from all sides to watch them pass. Hughes flashed a grin at Hawkeye, and she returned with a shaky smile that held the barest beginnings of hope. At the command tent where Fuhrer Bradley held council with his generals, Hughes halted his party before the guards and announced Logue's wish for an audience to discuss peace. A stunned murmur shot through the crowd, and then someone cheered. Logue's followers visibly brightened, holding themselves a little higher, and Logue gazed upon the Amestrians like his own children.

One of the guards ducked his head into the tent, conferring with someone. In a matter of seconds, he withdrew and nodded. "You may enter and meet with His Excellency."

Hughes, Logue and their respective subordinates entered the command tent, which was occupied only by Bradley sitting across a broad table. The Amestrian leader heard out Logue's plea in silence, each man studying the other. But there could be no question of the Fuhrer refusing in the face of the losses they had suffered lately. This was the perfect opportunity to end the war  _without_ appearing weak to their enemies. When the citizens looked back on this day, they would think only of Logue's great sacrifice and Bradley's unfathomable mercy, and  _that_  was what made legends out of mortals.

When Logue had made his case, Bradley leaned back in his chair with his fingers linked together. "How arrogant of you."

Hughes felt his heart plummet as shocked silence rippled through the tent.  _Oh, no. No, no,_ no...

"Do you sincerely believe your life is worth that of the remaining multitude of your followers?" Bradley asked frankly. "Each human life is only equivalent to that of  _one_ life! Nothing more, nothing less. Your life alone is not enough to call off the extermination."

The Ishvalans, save for Logue, lost all semblance of composure, and Hughes' men leapt into action to prevent them from attacking Bradley.

"How can you be so inhuman?"

"You will suffer the wrath of God!"

"God, you say?" Bradley drawled, sounding almost bored. "Now this is intriguing. Tell me, how much longer do you think your  _God_ plans to wait before unleashing his fury? Just how many thousands of lives must I take for him to act? I'm afraid you've been deceiving yourselves with such pitiful notions as divine power and judgment. If you wish to strike me down for all these atrocities, use your own hands to do so! Not God's! Now Captain Hughes, escort these  _prisoners_  to the execution grounds."

Hughes swallowed the lead lump in his throat. That was it. His one chance to return home,  _gone_. And all at the whim of a single man who believed himself above anything to do with morals or law or even God. He only managed a quick nod before he grasped Logue's arm and pulled him from the tent. When they emerged, there was no need to explain the meeting's outcome to the waiting soldiers. It was written in all their faces, and everywhere Hughes looked, he saw the same devastated shock that he was feeling. As their group approached the execution grounds—just a crumbling wall where prisoners and disobedient soldiers were quickly dealt with—the spectators drifted away until they were alone.

"I'm truly sorry, young man," Logue said, sounding utterly lost. "I thought I could..."

"Save it, we're getting you out of here," Hughes said under his breath. "Your followers are fighters as well, right? Once we're behind that wall, you'll overwhelm us and  _run_  before the gunmen get here. That's all I can do for you."

Glancing back at his squad, Hughes saw only a hint of fearful surprise on the faces of his subordinates before they reflected back his determination. The distraught Ishvalans looked like they hardly dared to believe his words, and Logue seemed on the verge of tears. "We are indeed in your debt," he said in a hushed voice.

Quickly, Hughes and his men hustled the Ishvalans around the wall. As soon as they were out of sight of the camp, he drew his knife and hacked the ropes off Logue's wrists. The others started to do the same for his followers...

"Why am I not surprised you attempted something treasonous like this, Captain Hughes?"

Soldiers and Ishvalans alike froze when Bradley rounded the wall, boots crunching in the sand as he looked down on them all with impunity. Hughes felt himself growing pale, but his anger was much stronger, his abhorrence for Bradley and all he represented rising like a hot, poisonous wave.

"Far more  _treasonous_  it is, to let your citizens die for no reason," Logue said, drawing himself up.

"Do not deign to lecture me, Ishvalan," Bradley said frostily, moving closer. In that instant, his blind side was to Hughes, and Gran's words came back to him as if from a dream.  _Half of all officer deaths on the battlefield are attributed to assassination by subordinates..._

"Will you not hear me out once more, King Bradley? You are a rational man even as I am! You cannot deny—"

The impulse seized him before he could even think about the consequences. Hughes brought his hand around and hurtled his knife,  _knowing_ he wouldn't miss at this range. At least, that was what he thought. Until Bradley knocked the knife  _out of the air_  with his sword. Hughes hardly had time to wonder when the hell he had drawn it before he was slammed against the execution wall with his throwing hand pinned and the sword at his throat.

"Fuhrer Bradley, s-sir—!"

At the worst possible time, the Fuhrer's guards rounded the wall, followed by whatever soldiers they had rounded up to carry out the execution order. Between them, they quickly subdued the Ishvalans and lined them against the wall, and Hughes' own soldiers were herded off to the side. His eyes shot to his men briefly. "Don't punish them!" Hughes begged. "It was my orders they followed, so don't—"

Bradley pressed the blade more firmly against his windpipe, cutting off his words and drawing blood. "And just what prompted you to give such foolish orders? What madness made you think you could end me?"

Hughes quivered like a frightened mouse caught by an eagle, petrified by the sheer power in the much older man's grip. "It's the war I want to end," he rasped, willing his leader to understand. "I just...can't stay here any longer. I  _can't_. I have to go home, I have to see her one more time!"

"Well," Bradley said in a deadly tone, "it looks like that won't be happening now."

The sword's pommel struck his temple and knocked him to the ground, glasses flying. The Fuhrer's guards were on him in an instant, wrenching his arms back to tie his wrists, divesting him of his gun and knives. His breathing quickened, tears spilling over onto the sand, and Hughes bit back the hysterical entreaties that wanted to burst forth. After attempting to save Logue Lowe and assassinate the Fuhrer, he was a traitor twice over. There would be no trial, no jury or sentencing, and certainly no last words. He would die here, bound against the wall with the other Ishvalans and with his subordinates in full sight of his shame. Gracia would receive only a letter naming him a defector, a disgrace, and know nothing more of what happened to him.

The guards heaved him upright and shoved his back to the wall. Hughes cowered against it in despair, not even daring to look toward his men who were even now begging for their captain's life. The gunmen spread out in a rough semi-circle. When Hughes looked up, he almost sobbed at the horrific irony. His executioner was Riza Hawkeye. She met his eyes, stricken, knuckles white on her rifle. But one glance at the Fuhrer was all it took. She had no choice. As the cadet lifted her rifle, Hughes could tell she was trying to see him as another faceless enemy, and it just wasn't working. He let his head rest against the wall, eyes squeezed shut against the sun as he called up every memory of Gracia he had, finding solace in them for the very last time.

A shadow fell across him. His eyes flew open. Logue stood between him and the rifle, chin lifted proudly. "I recall you saying, Fuhrer Bradley," he said gravely, "that one life only equals one life? Well then...is my life enough to earn your pardon for this man?"

"W-What?" Hughes gasped. "No, you can't—you  _can't_ —"

Logue smiled back at him warmly even as his eyes blazed defiance and something like victory. "I and my followers came to this place with the expectation that we would die and join our brethren at Ishvala's side. But even if I have failed to save thousands, then by God, I will at least save  _one_  person from this monster. Well, Fuhrer? Is it an equal trade?"

"Your life is already forfeit, Ishvalan," Bradley said sternly, but he seemed more amused than anything else. "However...I cannot help but admire your audacity. Fine, then. You may have your trade, though I fail to see what you could possibly gain from it."

Hughes wanted to protest, wanted to get up and shove the old man out of the path of the bullets. But his survival instincts had always been strong and there was no fighting them now as Bradley once more gave the signal for the gunmen to ready their weapons. Hawkeye aimed her scope squarely at Logue's chest. "Forgive me," she murmured.

Logue bowed his head. "I have, my child."

" _Fire!_ "

Hughes turned away at the last moment, inwardly screaming when Logue's body crumpled at his feet followed swiftly by his followers. Bradley and his guards took themselves off without another word, and Hughes sank to the ground numbly as his subordinates rushed forward to untie him, offering comfort and needing it themselves. He buried his head in his hands and wept in earnest, some of his tears for Logue, but most were selfishly reserved for himself.

_Gracia...oh Gracia, I almost left you...I almost didn't come home..._

Hawkeye knelt before him, not quite looking at him as she passed him his cracked glasses. "Thank you," Hughes choked. "For, you know...not shooting me."

"But I would have," Hawkeye said, sounding shaken as she wrapped her arms around herself. "H-He never would have forgiven me if I did, and I still would have..."

She seemed surprised when he yanked her into a fierce hug. "What matters is that you didn't. So  _thank you._ "

* * *

After anticipating it for so long, the end of the war came as a complete surprise. One day word came that the last district had been cleared, the last insurgent slain, and suddenly everyone was celebrating. The brass managed to keep a cap on the rowdiness, but there was new energy about the camp as arrangements were made to pack up the majority of the troops and send them home. Hughes supposed he should be as deliriously happy as everyone else, but the feeling was more of an afterthought. Of course he was glad to be going home. He would be much gladder once he was actually  _there_.

Hughes reclined in the shade of a stack of munitions crates. Not far from here the generals were making their glorious speeches to whatever soldiers had deigned to gather and listen. The Fuhrer merely observed, reserving his own words for the masses in Central. Hughes doubted he would be going to that speech. He still had trouble looking at the man without his memory jumping back to what he had done in what could only be described as a temporary fit of insanity.

God, just thinking of it made him physically ill. In that moment, he had allowed himself to forget that this was the leader of his damn country. For all his faults as a person, he was still a  _person_ , and a husband and father at that. Hughes had very nearly deprived the First Lady and her son of a third of their family.

But still, that ruthless part of him—the part that had thrown the knife in the first place—smoldered deep in his soul. Just what made Bradley's life more sacred than all of those Ishvalans who had been killed? How did a man like that even end up in power? True, the Fuhrer had many supporters, but Hughes sincerely doubted any of those generals would willingly walk into death at their leader's side, like Logue Lowe's people had done for him.

Hughes cut off that train of thought before it could go anywhere. His fingers brushed the pocket containing Gracia's most recent letter, smiling at the thought of her waiting for his train. As soon as he saw her, he planned on dropping to his knee right there in the station and asking for her hand. An obscenely romantic gesture, perhaps. But  _oh_ , how he longed to see the joy in her eyes and the smile on her face as she said...

"God  _damn_ it!"

...definitely  _not_ that. Hughes opened one eye when he saw Roy coming toward him, cursing and spitting in fury. "And it's good to see you too," he told the alchemist wryly. "I'm glad you're still alive."

"Have you heard what they're calling me?" Roy demanded without preamble.

"Who, the generals?"

"No, the  _soldiers_ , Hughes! They came up to me, a couple of my own men, and they were  _thanking_ me! They called me a hero!"

"Well...what's the problem?" Hughes inquired. He stood up and followed his friend as Roy stomped on. "They're right, you know. Of all the alchemists,  _your_  subordinates suffered the least number of losses. In fact, wasn't it your men who secured that last district and ended the war? To them, that must seem pretty heroic."

"There's nothing heroic about it!" Roy ground out. "Those men who told me that, they were grateful I managed to keep them alive. But that was just  _one_ squad, one  _pitiful_ squad in a sea of casualties. I swore to protect my country, but in the end it was all I could do to protect a handful of people.  _Now_  do you get why I'm so upset? I'm not a hero, Hughes, I'm a  _failure!_ "

"You can't be so hard on yourself," Hughes insisted, pulling him to a stop. Logue's face flashed through his mind, and he looked away quickly in case his pain showed. "There's only so much one man can do...and anyway, those soldiers were probably just grateful you didn't treat them like cannon fodder."

Roy shoved his hands in his pockets. "Maybe you're right, maybe the power of one man  _doesn't_  amount to much. But is it really so unreasonable that I want to protect as many as I possibly can? If I do that, then maybe they in turn will protect the ones  _they_ love, and that protection will just keep extending..."

"...on and on like a pyramid," Hughes mused, chuckling. "Keep dreaming there, Roy. I've had childhood delusions more likely to come true."

"Fine, call me a child!" Roy said, rounding on him defensively. "But unless  _someone_ chases after pipedreams, nothing will change. Isn't that what being human is about? Evolving past what we are and onto what we can only dream of becoming?"

 _Well, hello there, Cadet Roy,_  Hughes thought to himself bemusedly.  _Haven't seen YOU in awhile._

Somehow as they walked, they had wandered to where the speeches were taking place. This time it was Raven up there, and the soldiers were already fidgeting in boredom at his honeyed, superfluous words. Roy sighed heavily, looking up into the hazy sky. "Tell me about your dreams again, Hughes. All that crap about getting married and being a father and building a country where your family can live safely. I used to love hearing you talk like that because it made my dreams seem that much closer."

"Your words have changed, but you're still the same old idealist you always were," Hughes informed him. Roy ducked his head, and Hughes' eyes widened slightly when he was suddenly reminded of the way Logue had looked just before he died. Until now he hadn't allowed himself to truly examine the memory, but...

 _Even if I have failed to save thousands, then by God, I will at least save_ one _person from this monster._

They really were two of a kind, weren't they? It was too bad Roy and Logue had never met. For all their differences, they would have gotten along like old friends. If only it had been Roy on the other end of that negotiation table instead of Bradley...

Hughes caught his breath, time seeming to stop as the stray thought slipped through. Well, why the hell  _couldn't_ it be? God knew Roy would have never thrown away an opportunity like that out of sheer arrogance. Roy valued human life far too much, but he also had the logic to recognize when it was time to show no mercy. Most of all, like Logue, he had that  _quality_. That magical way of inspiring loyalty, and even love, from those he commanded.

"That pyramid thing you were talking about," Hughes remarked, fixing his attention on the Fuhrer. "You know, there's just one problem with it. If you hope to someday protect  _everyone_ , then you'll have to find a way to be the one at the  _top_ of the pyramid."

Roy followed his gaze to Bradley, curiously at first, but then he grew very, very still. His eyes widened and then just as quickly narrowed in speculation. And Hughes watched the hungry, ambitious flame begin to grow, that first spark of  _could I do it? Could I really make it?_

"I can only imagine how good it must feel up there, Hughes," Roy whispered, not taking his eyes off the Fuhrer. "But I'll never know unless I have all the support I can get. There's no doubt about that."

"You're not very subtle, you know that?" Hughes snickered, bumping his arm. More quietly, he murmured, "What the hell, you've got  _my_ support. Personally, I want to see how your naïve idealism changes this country."

"And if we fail?"

"Then at least we'll give that old bastard a run for his money. Just like those seniors at the academy."

Roy smirked, casting him a sidelong look. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. Just the same as back then."

Hughes shrugged in an  _I-can't-help-it_  kind of way. "Well? Is it working?"

Roy cast the Fuhrer one last, hard look. And maybe he was imagining it, but Hughes fancied he saw Bradley turn in their direction briefly. His sharp gaze swept over them both, lingering on Roy longest before moving on to Hughes, who shivered just the tiniest bit. "I think he's onto us," he muttered.

"Good," Roy said boldly. He turned his back on Bradley, somehow making it look exactly like the slight it was instead of some kind of retreat. Hughes stuck close to his shoulder as they marched away, amused when he found himself partly eclipsed by Roy's shadow. He could get used to it, he supposed, this clandestine role behind the throne. When it came down to it, Roy was the one with the ideas, the power and the guts to try and make this country what it should be, and Hughes wouldn't trade places with him for anything.

But he was very,  _very_ glad he had chosen the right friend.


	7. First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye

_"Thank you...for helping me to arrange my father's funeral."_

_Not that it had been much of one with only the two of them and a few kind souls from the local church who handled the burial. A chill wind tugged at her skirt and swept tendrils of black hair from his concerned eyes as he turned to her. "Will you be alright? Do you have any other family to turn to?"  
_

_She stared listlessly at the shadows they cast on the headstones, aching with loneliness. Already Berthold Hawkeye's grave looked a thousand years old, overrun by unkempt grass and dead leaves just like her mother's beside it. "My mother died when I was a child and both my parents were estranged from their families. If I have relatives, I'll probably never meet them."_

_"I see..."_

_"Don't worry about me," she felt compelled to say. "My father ensured I had a decent education. I'm sure I'll get by on my own, somehow."_

_He was silent for a moment. She expected him to insist on taking care of her out of obligation to his tutor and braced herself to fend off his misplaced sense of duty. What she didn't expect was for him to smile and nod, acknowledging her independence despite her youth and sheltered life. He withdrew a small white card from his pocket and held it out. "Okay. But if you ever need anything, don't hesitate to call on me in the military. That's where I'll most likely remain for the rest of my life."  
_

_"For the rest of your life?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Please don't get killed, Mr. Mustang."_

_"...please don't jinx me, Miss Hawkeye."_

A raven cawed somewhere nearby and the dream splintered and fell to pieces, leaving Hawkeye with only the vaguest notion of what it had been about. The sheets were cold beneath her breasts and stomach, but her bare back tingled with pleasant warmth from the sun streaming in her window. Strange. At this time of year, she certainly didn't make a habit of going to bed without a shirt or even a blanket.

Several things reminded her at once, the most obvious a faint snore and the tickle of someone else's breath against her ribs. Hawkeye raised her head from her folded arms and looked behind her. Roy had also fallen asleep, sprawled on his side with his head near her waist and his feet dangling off the bed. One of his arms was draped heavily across her back, a notebook splayed open by his hand and filled with equations and scrawled arrays. His pencil had rolled to the floor sometime after they succumbed to slumber.

Hawkeye sighed, carefully moving his arm. Perhaps she shouldn't have shown him her father's research directly after the funeral. They had both been exhausted, but it had seemed foolish to wait. Once the initial awkwardness over the tattoo's revelation faded, Roy had set right to work deciphering the alchemic code, but after two hours Hawkeye had been yawning and swaying on her feet. The last thing she remembered was Roy's diffident suggestion that she lie down so as not to tire herself while he studied the secrets on her back. He must have worked himself to the bone even long after she drifted off because he looked dead to the world, his eyes puffy and shadowed.

One thing was for sure, they would both need coffee first thing. Her father had always required some after long nights of study. Rising slowly, Hawkeye retrieved her rumpled blouse from the chair where Roy's military jacket also hung and pulled it on. She stretched and yawned on the way to the kitchen, and habit took over as she brewed a pot and took out some mugs.

It was only after she had filled them that she stopped, her thoughts frozen along with her heart. Three mugs. She had filled  _three_ mugs. How had that happened? How did she not  _notice?_  She hadn't done that yesterday or the day before...

But yesterday, she hadn't made any coffee. She only had a few bites of toast, all she could stomach before the funeral. And the day before...that was the day she went upstairs and found her father dead in the arms of his apprentice.

_Oh...God..._

Her hand shook so badly she nearly dropped the coffee pot. Hawkeye set it heavily on the counter and braced her palm beside it, her other flying up to cover her mouth. Hot, sick grief swamped her, and her heart fluttered in panic.

Her father was dead.  _Dead_.There was no one left in this whole  _world_ she could call her kin, and the sudden absence of that safety net made her feel like a ship lost at sea, a star tumbling from an alien sky. She was cold and hot all at once, terrified and at the same time terrifyingly  _empty_. Raw, anguished sobs wracked her throat as a single tear trailed down her cheek and fell into one of the mugs with a soft  _plop_.

A hand closed over hers resting on the counter. "Riza," Roy whispered, sounding just as helpless as she felt. Hawkeye allowed herself to be turned around and drawn into his arms. She pressed her face into his shoulder, shaking.

"I-I knew he was gone," Hawkeye choked. "I  _knew_  it, but I didn't..."

"It didn't really hit you until now," Mustang finished. He reached behind her and discreetly emptied one of the mugs back into the coffee pot. "But it's...it's going to be alright. You're not alone, I swear you'll never be alone. Okay?"

The hidden pain in his voice brought on a fresh wave of tears. Hawkeye may have lost her father, but Roy had witnessed the death of his alchemy master. And for it to happen in such a way, so suddenly and irrevocably, must be just as upsetting and painful for him as it was for her.

"Let's sit," Roy suggested once she calmed down, steering her into a spindly chair at the table. He set one of the mugs before her, not encouraging her to drink it but giving her the option. Roy, for his part, slumped into his chair and gulped down half his coffee without stopping.

"Did you...have you managed to decipher my father's research?" Hawkeye asked in a subdued voice.

Roy started and cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. "Well, almost. I've worked through the most complex portions, and I'll only need another hour or so to decode what's left. After that...I shouldn't need to see the tattoo again."

It was amazing how analytically they could speak of this, Hawkeye thought as she took a sip of coffee. Yesterday, Roy had seemed more embarrassed by the situation than her. Of course, she had been apprehensive as well but perhaps not for the same reasons. Hawkeye had been horribly aware she was about to bare her body to a young man who was practically a stranger, and part of her had feared the derision and lewdness such young men were sometimes known for. But Roy had been respectful. Kind, even, hardly speaking and refusing to touch her except to trace the sigils with his fingertips.

"It doesn't have to be today," Roy put in quickly, taking her silence for reluctance. "I imagine you're still tired so if you need time..."

"I'm fine," Hawkeye assured him. "I think it's better to finish this now. Even after it's decoded, you'll still need to master the alchemy, won't you?"

"Unfortunately," Roy sighed. "I only have so much time before the next State alchemy exam. I don't think I'll be getting much sleep between now and then."

Hawkeye nodded, toying with the handle of her mug before she stood. "Then let's get it over with."

"Right now?" Roy said in surprise. "I thought you'd at least want breakfast or something. You hardly ate yesterday."

"I'll survive," Hawkeye replied. "Besides, it's not like I need the energy. You'll be doing all the work."

Roy opened his mouth and hastily shut it again, and Hawkeye could just  _see_ him biting his tongue against some kind of crude remark. Maybe she should have been offended, but instead she came very close to smiling. It seemed he wasn't entirely made of stone after all. When they returned to her room, Hawkeye tried not to be nervous as she turned her back to him and lifted the hem of her blouse. She had gotten as far as tugging it over her shoulders and head when she felt Roy rest his palm on her back.

"Did it hurt?" Roy murmured with a degree of remorse that startled her. "When he did this, did it hurt?"

Hawkeye turned, keeping her front covered with the blouse. "Only afterward. Father gave me painkillers and a sedative before he began. I didn't feel much while it was happening."

_Except his tears falling on my back. But that could have been my own blood or a hallucination altogether..._

"He had no right to do this to you," Roy said in quiet vehemence.

"It wasn't done against my will!"

"But you still felt obligated to go through with it, didn't you?" Roy snapped. "That's hardly any different!"

"And what would  _you_ have done?" Hawkeye challenged him. "If he had gone to you and asked you to be the one to guard his research?"

"I wouldn't have let him  _deface_  me for the sake of research!"

The accusation hung in the air, ringing in her ears, and not even Roy's almost instant contriteness could take them back. "That...that came out wrong," he stammered and reached for her. "I'm sorr—"

" _Don't touch me_ ," Hawkeye hissed. His hand stopped inches from her shoulder, and slowly, Roy let it fall to his side. She moved past him and left the room without any clear idea of where she was going, eventually winding up back in the kitchen. Hawkeye sank onto the nearest chair, her gaze straying to the empty mug still on the counter where Roy had left it. And she wished more than anything that her father was here, just so she could ask  _why_.

On the day she received the tattoo, Hawkeye hadn't really considered the consequences as they applied to her. It had been all about her father, about protecting his legacy in the only way she possibly could. It wasn't until the chains were in place that she realized just how heavy they were. She could never let  _anyone_ see that tattoo. Not a doctor, not a friend, no one. She could never take a lover because how could she know her trust was not misplaced? Her father had, essentially, locked her in a fiery tower and cut her off from any intimate connection with another human being.

Except Roy. And bitterly, Hawkeye wondered if that hadn't been what her father had in mind from the start. An arranged marriage, of sorts, and one she could never escape because their link was forever carved into her being.

Footsteps came up behind her, circled her chair, and then Roy knelt before her and laid something in her lap. The notebook he had filled with her father's flame alchemy.

"Why are you giving this to me?" Hawkeye asked, bewildered.

"Because it belongs to you," Roy told her. "Yesterday, you asked if you could entrust your back to me and my dreams. But if you've changed your mind...then this is rightfully yours."

Hawkeye touched the notebook's cover, scanning his composed face. "But...but what about your exam?"

Roy faltered, but then he shrugged with a faltering smile. "What about it? I can still make a difference as an ordinary soldier."

But not as much of one. That was what he left unsaid. Hawkeye watched him straighten up, but before he could walk away, she found herself reaching out and taking his hand. "When did I say I changed my mind about trusting you?" she asked quietly.

"But I thought..."

Hawkeye looked up at this man—a man so compassionate, so ardent in his beliefs, so  _different_ from her father—and was almost disgusted with herself for her resentment and self-pity. No one had forced her to show Roy the flame alchemy. She could have stayed silent, let him walk out the door and never seen him again. But his reasons for becoming an alchemist had struck such a chord in her. Unlike Berthold, Roy looked beyond the equations and symbols in his notebook to what they could be used  _for_. He saw a country that needed to be protected, an army that needed to be strengthened, a world that needed to be  _better_.

He saw  _her_  behind the tattoo. And that was how she knew Roy would not be consumed like her father. Hawkeye gave him back the notebook and turned in her chair so he could see her back. After a moment's hesitation, he dragged a chair closer and sat, wordlessly picking up where he had left off. This time barely an hour had passed before the sounds of writing stopped.

"I'm finished."

She donned her blouse in silence and as one they rose, neither quite knowing what to say. Roy tucked the notebook under his arm. "Once I've mastered all there is, I'll destroy these notes. No one will ever learn the secrets of flame alchemy from me."

"Okay. Thank you."

He hesitated a moment. "I hate to leave you like this," he admitted. "I...I might be sent off to battle as soon as I earn my watch. I don't even know if I'll ever see you again…"

"Roy," Hawkeye said softly, surprising him with her use of his first name. She smiled as bravely as she could. "You've done more for me than I ever expected. I won't ask any more from you, only that you take great care with my father's alchemy."

"Now  _that_  I can promise," Roy said with a disarming grin. They both hung back at first, unsure what exactly the situation called for, and they settled on a quick, friendly embrace. But Roy held her for just a little longer than necessary, and her heart pounded when he pressed his forehead to hers, their lips so close she could taste his breath. Before Hawkeye could decide whether this was what she wanted, he sighed and kissed her cheek.

"Take care of yourself, Riza."

He left her, breathless and bewildered, and walked out of the room. Seconds later, she heard the front door open and shut again and his footsteps fading down the path until she was left with only ringing silence.

It only took two minutes for her to realize there was nothing left for her here, in this house. Death and impending war had claimed everything Hawkeye had ever cared for or believed in. Now she had a choice. Stay here and go on as best she could, devoid of purpose, or...

Hawkeye went upstairs, dug out an old, tattered suitcase from under her bed and started packing. Clothes, a few photos and a small sum of money for the train ticket. The rest she was better off leaving behind. She would hire a caretaker for the property once she was already gone. The white card Roy had given her was the last thing she picked up, and Hawkeye pondered it for a long moment before she picked up the phone and called the recruitment office at the military headquarters.

"Yes, my name is Riza Hawkeye. I would like to discuss my opportunities for enlistment."

* * *

Apparently, she was quite good. That was what her superiors told her, anyway. It was easy to understand the concept of a gun. This was the scope, this was the trigger, that was the target. Aim, breathe and squeeze the trigger, thus eliminating the target. Her fellow cadets were astonished that Hawkeye hit  _every_ target  _every_ time, which puzzled her. That was the whole point, wasn't it? To  _not_ miss?

Perhaps they were accustomed to lower standards. Hawkeye was not.

That was the reason she had been pulled from the academy and placed in a border patrol at the edge of the eastern desert. The village she was stationed in had a small garrison building that her unit had claimed for themselves, and now they were packed into the only room large enough to accommodate them all for onsite briefing. Tucked between two very tall, very muscular men, Hawkeye had never felt smaller. The past eight months of hard training had honed her body, and she was more physically fit than she had ever been, but at times her mind still belonged to the reticent alchemist's daughter in her rural village.

Not a soldier. Not a  _sniper_.

"And since the incident with that brat being killed, the Ishvalans have stepped up from a few random riots to premeditated attacks," their commanding officer droned on. "Border towns like this have become prime targets as a way to halt supplies from reaching our forces in the heart of the region. That's where we come in. Now  _these_ are photos taken from previous attacks, and as you can see, it's mainly small groups overseen by a few warrior monks. And don't let the term 'monk' fool you. For a so-called peaceful nation, each of those monks is a highly-skilled combatant..."

Everyone crowded closer to the table in the center. Hawkeye absorbed the images spread on its surface. Young and old, male and female, smiling and frowning, but one thing was always the same. Dark skin, red eyes. No more cardboard cutouts. From now on, she would be taking human lives in the name of her country.

"Any questions?"

A few queries followed, mostly about trivial things. It was Hawkeye who stated the obvious. "Sir, these are not soldiers. They're civilians. Aren't we, as soldiers, sworn to protect civilians?"

The room was silent. Her commanding officer, Second Lieutenant Trenton, looked down his nose at the youngest and lowest rank in the unit and smirked. "Now that they've taken up arms against us, we no longer consider them civilians."

"But their nation was annexed by ours," Hawkeye pressed. "That makes them citizens of Amestris, doesn't it? We shouldn't be taking up arms against our own citizens no matter what they've done."

"This is combat, Cadet, not philosophy class," Trenton drawled. "Maybe you're still pandered from the academy, but let me assure you that trying to engage one of those monks in an ethical debate will only end with you dead and him laughing at your stupidity."

Some laughter rippled through the room, and Hawkeye said nothing as they were all dismissed, still disturbed. Private David, the only other sniper in the group, bumped her arm gently on the way out. "Just in case you didn't get that, kitten," he said cheerfully, "our superiors don't like it when you question them."

"I had noticed," Hawkeye said dryly, ignoring his playful grin. The private had been flirting with her on and off since day one, and she had long since given up telling him to use her real name. Apparently, Riza Hawkeye was too much of a Stern Nanny name, though she failed to see how it was any worse than  _kitten_.

"We've got first watch so go get your rifle," David added. Hawkeye nodded and did so, taking comfort from its familiar weight on her shoulder as she and David set out for the rocky bluffs on the outskirts of town. A pearly half-moon cast the world in faint shades of silver and black, and hardly a sound disturbed the night.

Hawkeye moved slowly, letting her eyes and senses adjust to the terrain as her troubled thoughts continued to plague her. All she had heard about these ongoing border conflicts had led her to believe that it was Amestris fighting to maintain her borders and protect her people from other nations. Yet now it was  _their_ army blithely encroaching upon the Ishvalan holy land. The uprising was looking more like a civil war every day, and there was talk of sending in the State Alchemists to quell them once and for all. It didn't make any sense.

_Did Roy know it would be like this? Or did he walk into it just as blindly as I did?_

David sighed gustily. "Okay, I give up."

Hawkeye looked at him, nonplussed. "Give up on what?"

"Trying to make you smile," David said with a shrewd look. "Or laugh, or blush, or  _something_. For once, my irresistible charm has failed me. So I can only come to two conclusions. Either you really are made of stone...or my kitten already has a man that can make her do all those things."

"N-No, it's nothing like that," Hawkeye said quickly and tried not to think of Roy when the private smirked at her. "I'm sorry, David, but I'm just not attracted to you."

David put a hand to his heart dramatically. "Ouch! Right where it hurts! Can't you at least let me  _think_  it's another man so I can salvage my pride?"

Hawkeye gave him an exasperated look. " _Fine_ , it's another man."

"I knew it! So what makes this guy so special? Is he rich? Is he handsome? Is he good in bed?"

"He's in the military."

She wasn't quite sure what made her blurt that out, so softly she barely heard her own voice. Hawkeye kept her gaze lowered when David stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Oh, man...you didn't tell him how you felt before he shipped out, did you? And now you're afraid you won't get a chance to."

"It's not...I don't know  _what_ I feel for him," Hawkeye admitted. "The circumstances were all wrong, and—"

A whisper of displaced air, a flash of movement in the corner of her eye. Hawkeye halted, waving at David to stop as well. At once his demeanor shifted to something more professional, and they both crouched low and used their rifle lenses to scan their surroundings.

"On your ten, two hundred meters," Hawkeye said when she located the source of the movement. A small group of people were trudging through a ravine. It was difficult to tell their skin color in the dark, but there was no mistaking the cut of their clothing.

"Ishvalans," David said, but he sounded surprised. "Those...don't look like terrorists."

No, they didn't. Not at all. They were middle-aged and older or else adolescents and younger. There were several women carrying exhausted children, and the men and boys kept a guarded eye on their surroundings. A few overloaded carts were visible, but everyone carried at least one pack, and no one seemed to have a clear idea of where they were going.

Those  _definitely_  weren't terrorists.

"They were refugees, sir," Hawkeye reported to Lieutenant Trenton half an hour later. "I'm sure of it. They carried no visible weapons, and there were many children among them."

"It's possible they're fleeing from the violence in the east," David input at her side. "There've been reports of Ishvalans fleeing over the borders into Aerugo."

Trenton nodded along, pacing as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Perhaps, but even refugees could potentially be harboring known insurgents. There could even be spies among them. Whatever the case, we won't know for sure until we take them into custody. Private David, Cadet Hawkeye, I'll need you to rouse everyone and lead us to these refugees."

"But sir, they're noncombatants!" Hawkeye protested. "We don't have the right to take them into custody—"

It was as if she hadn't spoken at all. "You have your orders, I suggest you carry them out."

"Yes, sir," David intoned and saluted, waiting for Hawkeye to follow suit before herding her out of the room. It didn't take long to get the rest of the unit together, and she and David led them on into the night. Soon they crested a ridge and had a clear view of the Ishvalans in the ravine. They looked to be bedding down for the night, coaxing fires from what little fuel they had and huddling together in small family groups.

"Snipers, stay behind and watch our backs," Trenton ordered them. Hawkeye and David found concealment in some scrub bushes, David taking a lower vantage point several meters to her right. Hawkeye watched the rest of the unit approach the refugees through her lens. The refugees were visibly startled to see the soldiers, but a few brave souls stepped forward to speak for the group as a whole.

The conversation didn't last long. Trenton directed the soldiers to herd the Ishvalans from their campfires, and Hawkeye felt sick when voices were raised and threats made. She couldn't hear the words, but the expressions and gestures said it all.  _Please don't let this get violent. Please, please let them see reason..._

And then it happened. One of the Ishvalan boys came up behind Trenton and drew a pistol, pressing the nozzle to the back of the lieutenant's head.

"Oh hell," David hissed. "Kitten, standby. If I get a chance, I'll try to get a nonfatal shot."

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye replied, her throat dry. She also took aim at the armed Ishvalan, carefully accounting for the distance and the wind, but she bit her lip when her target's face came into view, harshly illuminated by firelight. He couldn't be older than fourteen. So young, completely untrained and  _scared_. Both the soldiers and his own brethren were trying to talk him down, but to no avail.

David pulled the trigger, but his rifle merely clicked. He cursed again, fumbling. "It's jammed."

"What?" Hawkeye said, heart thumping in her chest.

"I said I can't shoot! You have a clear shot, right? You have to do it."

"But he's—"

"That kid's not going to back down," David said edgily. "If you don't shoot, he  _will_. Do it!"

It was an order. She couldn't disobey, but Hawkeye's finger still hovered over the trigger. The boy was crying now as he said something, his hands shaking. Trenton looked back with a fearful expression. Hawkeye drew a breath when the pistol wavered. They had it wrong. That child was no killer, there was no need to endanger his young life. Just give him another moment and he would be convinced to lower the weapon…

" _Hawkeye!_ "

The boy raised the gun and shot Trenton pointblank. Hawkeye gasped when her commanding officer crumpled, horrified as that single shot rang endlessly through the hills. Refugees and soldiers alike froze, every eye on the corpse.

And then all hell broke loose.

" _Damn_ it, Hawkeye!" David roared as below several soldiers rushed forward to disarm the boy. The Ishvalans intervened to pry them apart, and then tense peace dissolved into frenzied fighting. Hawkeye stared at Trenton's body, guilt making her ears roar and her stomach roil. If she only hadn't hesitated…

A frightening calm overtook her. Ignoring David's furious shouts, she put her eye back to the lens, surveying the battle. The soldiers had guns, but in such chaos and close quarters hardly anyone was getting a chance to use them. The Ishvalans outnumbered the soldiers and desperate anger and better skill at hand-to-hand gave them an advantage. Her comrades were losing heart in the face of this enemy, one by one falling prey to the carnage.

_I won't let them die._

She sought out a target, an older man that straddled a thrashing soldier, slowly strangling him. Aim, breathe...and pull the trigger. The Ishvalan jerked and fell sideways, bleeding from his head. The soldier staggered to his feet in a daze, searching for the source of the bullet before dismissing it and rejoining the fight.

Next target, a woman brandishing a piece of burning wood like a club. Hawkeye followed her movements carefully and fired. A splotch of red blossomed on her back, and Hawkeye reloaded and sought out the next target before she even hit the ground. And the next. And the next. She fell into a state of mind she had only ever achieved on a shooting range, what veteran soldiers called  _the_ _sniper's trance_. Cold, unfeeling and deadly as a viper. She ignored the ache in her arms, she didn't feel the grass tickling her ankle or hear the screams coming from below. Her world narrowed to the rifle in her hands and the targets in her lens.

Aim. Breathe. Fire. Reload. Aim. Breathe. Fire. Reload.

_I won't let them die._

"Hawkeye," David said quietly. "That's enough."

Hawkeye blinked, abruptly  _aware_ of the world around her. Bodies littered the ravine. Nearly half of the refugees had been killed or injured too badly to fight. The children and the injured were now under guard. Nearly everyone in Hawkeye's unit was hurt as well, but only two of the dead bodies wore Amestrian blue.

David stood up. "Let's go."

She followed him down into the ravine numbly, her muscles taut and humming with adrenaline. She put the safety on her weapon and tried not to look at the bodies when they got close. Hawkeye only realized they had arrived when they stood before Trenton's second-in-command, now their commanding officer. He paused in directing the others to turn to them and nod a greeting. "Well done, you two. I'm glad Trenton thought to have you watching from above."

"Don't give credit where it isn't due, sir," David said, and Hawkeye started when he jerked his thumb at her. "My rifle jammed and I couldn't do a thing. It was all her."

Hawkeye swallowed, horribly aware of all the eyes that were suddenly drawn to her. "Are you telling me that this girl— _this_ girl—took out nearly a third of these Ishvalans all by herself?"

Hawkeye felt the blood drain from her face. A  _third_. No, surely that was an exaggeration? She couldn't  _possibly_  have…

Someone clapped her shoulder, and Hawkeye looked up into the face of the first man she had saved. "Nice shot," he remarked gruffly. "Low visibility, high distance and moving targets on top of that? You must have eyes like a hawk to have pulled that off."

More of her comrades came forward with words of gratitude, which Hawkeye accepted dutifully as she tried to ignore the stink of death that clung to them all. It too strong, too  _real_. She longed to run back to the academy where the only ones to feel her bullets were the flimsy cardboard targets that had no pulse to speak of.

Hawkeye noticed David staring at her, just briefly, before he turned away with a troubled look. At least one thing had come from this, she thought wretchedly. She doubted she would ever be called  _kitten_  again.

* * *

The days passed into weeks, then months, and the dispute in the east became bloodier by the day. The beginning of the end happened with the signing of a simple, one-page document. On that day, the Ishvalan War of Extermination commenced and every State Alchemist in the country was called to the front, along with every available body that could be spared from other border conflicts. Hawkeye was one of the latter. And it shouldn't have come as such a surprise that  _he_ was one of the former.

"Oh, hey there! You're the one who fired that shot the other day, right? Thanks for that!"

Hawkeye raised her head from her tin of rations, bemused by the bespectacled man's friendly smile. Beyond him, another man hung back uncertainly, and a hard lump rose in her throat at the sight of white gloves with a blood-red array. Her father's array. Hawkeye set her tin aside and slowly got to her feet, letting her hood fall back. She had been anticipating this meeting ever since she saw his face in her rifle lens, and her voice was coldly neutral as she greeted her father's only apprentice, now known as the Flame Alchemist.

"Hello, Mr. Mustang. Although, I guess I should call you Major now. Do you still remember me...?"

She faced him for the first time in years and fell silent. All the anger she wanted to feel, all the betrayal and outrage she longed to fling in his face for misusing the secrets she had trusted him with petered out the moment she saw  _that_ look on his face. Roy paled beneath his sunburn and took a step back. "Riza..."

"You two know each other?" the other solder asked, looking between them.

Hawkeye and Roy looked at each other, taking in the filthy uniforms, the scars old and new, the empty, haunted eyes. And she could tell he was thinking the same as her.  _We used to_.

They had some time so the three of them sat for awhile. The other soldier named Hughes was soon filled in on the bare bones of their past and Roy's apprenticeship to her father. Hawkeye kept her head down, not missing the furtive looks Roy kept shooting her way, like he expected her to start screaming at him any moment. And while part of her wanted to do just that, there was just one problem...

...he wasn't the heartless monster she had been expecting.

"Maybe  _you_  can answer this, Major," Hawkeye whispered when they lapsed into silence. "I thought...I thought alchemy existed to help people, and soldiers existed to protect them. So why are we killing citizens when we should be the ones  _protecting_  them? Why is  _alchemy_ being used to kill them?"

Roy looked at her and said nothing, his own devastation making his eyes darken and his lips pull taut. He offered no platitudes or excuses, telling her without words that he  _just didn't know_ why it had to be this way. Hawkeye stared down at her hands. She should have known better than to think he would have an answer. If  _she_ was feeling so lost and helpless, dreams shattered beyond saving, then Hawkeye could only imagine what he must be going through.

"Do I really need to spell it out for you people? We kill because that's the duty we've been given by order of our superiors. It's as simple as that."

Three heads swiveled in the direction of the man who had spoken, lounging against a wall like he was standing in a nightclub and not a warzone. He toyed with a small rock in his hand, and Hawkeye stared at the tattooed transmutation circle on his palm, mouth suddenly dry.

Beside her, Roy became tense. "Are you telling us to  _rationalize_  this, Kimbley?" he demanded lowly. "To see it as a job?"

"Oh, of course not," Kimbley said with a careless shrug. "That would be silly. You should see it as your  _calling_. Alchemy is what we were born to do, Mustang.  _Your_ alchemy in particular makes you an effective weapon for our military, and yet you're ashamed of it?"

Roy's eyes flicked over to Hawkeye. "I'm ashamed of the lives I've taken with it," he said quietly.

Kimbley frowned a little. His attention slid over to Hawkeye, and she shrank from his examination. "Well, that's all well and good for him. But what about  _you_ , miss? Can you  _honestly_  tell me, in that split second when you snipe an enemy, that you don't allow yourself to feel the slightest tinge of  _satisfaction_  and  _pride_  in your skills?  _Well,_  Miss Marksman?"

Hawkeye blanched, her mind rushing back to the memory of her first callous killing spree and the loathsome gratification that rose with every perfect shot. Ice blue eyes transfixed her as Kimbley leaned forward with a hungry curl to his lips. "Oh, would you look at that," he laughed harshly. "The little girl has a dark side after all! Think your daddy will be pleased when you tell him what you did here?"

" _Enough,_  Kimbley!"

Roy came between her and the other alchemist, breaking the spell. "Leave her be," he growled. "And shut your mouth while you're at it!"

"I feel bad for you," Kimbley said unexpectedly. He tossed the rock aside and dusted off his hands. "Were you people expecting something different? Did you put on that uniform thinking you  _wouldn't_ be asked to kill? Or is it that you were prepared to kill one or two, but not an entire nation? If you knew you would only hate yourselves for taking lives, then you never should have pulled the trigger in the first place!"

He put his face close to Roy's. "The one thing worse than death is to avert your eyes from it. So look straight at the people you kill, Mustang. Don't take your eyes off them for a second, and don't  _ever_ forget them. Because I promise... _they_  will not forget  _you_."

A faint clanging noise resounded through the camp. Kimbley straightened his jacket with a pleased noise. "Oops, that's the bell. Time to go back to work."

"I need to head out too," Hughes said reluctantly after Kimbley strolled off. "Later, Roy."

"Hughes," Roy said suddenly. "Tell me, why do you fight?"

Hughes paused and glanced back, his face shadowed. "It's simple. I don't want to die. The reasons are always simple."

With that, Hughes left. Roy hesitated, glancing at her one more time before striding away as if the sight of her face was too painful for him to bear. Hawkeye clutched her rifle like an old, abusive friend and wished for a world that was just a little less simple.

* * *

Another day, another battle. And that invariably meant another sniping position. This time it was the bell tower of an abandoned temple from which she had an excellent all-around view of the district. A haze hung over the city, fed by gunshots and alchemic explosions, and the faint breeze was nowhere near strong enough to disperse it. Hawkeye scanned the streets to the east and south meticulously, entirely focused on the flow of the battle. She caught a glimpse of Roy's friend, Captain Hughes, and kept an eye on him for just a little longer than necessary for reasons she didn't quite understand.

_I never asked you to follow me into a war! I never wanted this for you!_

Hawkeye swallowed thickly at the memory of Roy's angry voice from the night before. Of course, it must have come as a horrible shock for him to see her here on the battlefield. For all he had known, she was still safe at her father's house, so  _of course_ his first instinct would be to try and get her away from here. But why didn't he realize that she hadn't  _done_  this for him? Not completely, anyway. At the time, her naïve reasoning had seemed sound. Berthold Hawkeye could say all he wanted about the military, but she had found Roy's youthful ideals much easier to swallow than Berthold's brutal cynicism. She had only wanted to help.

In hindsight, Hawkeye thought bleakly, perhaps she should have listened to her father.

A chill like cold fingers on her spine warned her, and Hawkeye heard a tiny noise echoing up the staircase behind her. A footstep. Slowly, she eased back from the edge of the tower and crept closer to the stairs, careful not to let her shadow give away her presence. But as she raised her gun and aimed it into the maw, the approaching person chuckled.

"Now really, is that any way to greet a comrade, Miss Hawkeye?"

Hawkeye lowered her gun but did not relax, a faint warning still thrilling along her nerves as Kimbley ascended into view. "Sir, what are you doing here? I thought you were assigned to the next sector today."

Kimbley ignored her. Reaching the top step, he tipped his head back and breathed in deeply through his nose. "Ah, how  _refreshing_  the air is up here! Pure smoke and chemicals, none of that sand and blood to taint it. You have a nice little nest up here."

She watched him move past her and slowly circle around her tower. Suddenly  _hers_ now. No one had ever come to meet her like this, and some primal part of her loathed the intrusion. Kimbley trailed a hand over one of the wooden support beams and gazed at the ruined city. Hawkeye took a breath to steady her nerves and stepped closer. "Sir…"

"Look at that," Kimbley said, nodding at the columns of smoke off in the distance. "Even from here, you can see his handiwork. Can you imagine the  _sound_ those flames must be making right now? The way they  _roar_ , the way they thrash at his control like a pack of hounds."

Hawkeye let her eyes drift to the distant fires. Oh yes, she could imagine it all too clearly.

"It's no surprise Mustang has a temper like the fire he commands."

The remark was offhanded, but it made Hawkeye's heart falter. "You...you overheard. Last night."

"Well, it was kind of hard not to," Kimbley said with a crooked grin. "It was so saddening for me to hear that, and especially considering the  _special_ connection you share. Your father, his alchemy master…"

His cutting glance made her hands instinctively tighten on her rifle. Kimbley noticed and his grin only got wider. "I'd prefer not to speak of my father," Hawkeye said frostily. "He was...a troubled man."

"We all are, in one way or another," Kimbley said placidly, and it was a relief when he looked back out at the city. "But then, I doubt any ordinary man could have created and perfected such an  _extraordinary_ form of alchemy. Shame that he died before he could use it, but at least he left it in capable hands."

There was something about the way he said that, and the way he was looking at her now. Her throat ran dry, and she hurriedly cleared it, avoiding his gaze. "Yes. Major Mustang was his only apprentice so he was the logical choice..."

"Don't play games with me," Kimbley interrupted. He leaned against the wall, utterly at ease. "Unless you're saying what I heard last night was inaccurate, about  _you_  being the one to pass on flame alchemy to Mustang?"

"Whatever you heard was not meant for you," Hawkeye said, thinking frantically. Damn it all, Roy  _had_ mentioned it, if only briefly. "And if it's truly my father's research you want, I'm no longer in possession of it. Major Mustang and I destroyed it all—"

"Did you know, Miss Hawkeye," Kimbley remarked, examining his palm disinterestedly, "that alchemists are the only group of soldiers permitted to don personal accessories or obtain bodily modifications—tattoos, for instance—as part of their uniform? This is meant for the purpose of carrying alchemic arrays at all times on their person. But the other day in the medical tent, a few female medics were having an interesting discussion about a recent patient. A little blond sniper with a tattoo of her own...a very  _intricate_ tattoo."

She should have denied it the instant he brought it up, she should have denied ever visiting the medical tent for minor stitches and written off those medics as gossips. But all Hawkeye could think as her insides ran cold and Kimbley's expression became one of triumph was,  _He knows, oh God, he knows..._

Kimbley took a step closer, and that was one too many for Hawkeye. She lifted her rifle and aimed it squarely at his chest. "It's time for you to leave, Major," she said firmly.

"Is it now?" Kimbley said, unperturbed. His eyes raked over her body, searching. "Just when we were starting to get to know each other?"

"I won't permit you to see my father's research!"

His hand closed around the muzzle of her rifle and forced it toward the ceiling. He put his face very close to hers. "Permit? I think you misunderstand my intent, Miss Hawkeye. Do I  _look_ like I'm asking for permission?"

His other hand seized the rifle barrel, and he used it to forcibly shove her against the wall, putting such pressure on her neck that Hawkeye choked and nearly blacked out. She thrust out her fist wildly and landed a punch to his jaw. Grunting, Kimbley flung the rifle aside and spun her around until she was facing the wall with one arm locked behind her back. He grasped her free wrist with his other hand and pinned it to the wall.

"I'm  _going_  to get what I want," Kimbley said in her ear, almost business-like. "Even if it means killing you and stealing the secrets from your corpse. And corpses rot awfully quickly in this heat so it's truly in my best interest for you to stay alive as long as possible."

Hawkeye stilled in his arms, breathing deeply. "Kimbley..."

He chuckled darkly, like it was all a glorious game, and his teeth scraped the base of her neck right at the crest of the tattoo. "Yes?"

"...go to  _hell!_ "

She snapped her head back and smashed his nose with a satisfying  _crack._  He reared back with a cry of pain, which freed her to spin in his hold and strike him low and hard with her elbow. He staggered and sagged against a pillar, and Hawkeye dove sideways to retrieve her rifle, rising on one knee with the major in her lens.

Kimbley spat out a mouthful of blood, still grinning. "Well? No bullet to the head? Or maybe the Hawk's eye has finally lost her taste for blood—"

She pulled the trigger. The bullet clipped Kimbley's upper arm, and he stared at the deep gash. Hawkeye reloaded. "You have ten seconds to save your life," she informed him.

Kimbley licked his lips, and now he surveyed her with narrow eyes. Hawkeye could practically see the turn of his thoughts. She had wounded him twice, both nonfatal, but if he pressed on then one or both of them might end up mortally injured or dead. That was not what Kimbley wanted. Slowly, he moved toward the stairs, accepting that today, he had lost.

But Kimbley paused with his foot on the first step, his speculative eyes never leaving hers. "So," he murmured, "even a raptor who kills only from necessity will fly into a savage rage if her nest is violated or her mate and fledglings threatened. Such is her calling. Miss Hawkeye, you have my respect...but you really should have killed me when you had the chance."

He was gone with a single flick of his ponytail. Hawkeye stayed rock still for long after his footsteps were gone, and just to be sure, she moved to the ledge and scanned the streets until she caught sight of the Crimson Alchemist striding away from her tower. Only then did the tremors overtake her. The rifle clattered from her hands, and she hunched over with her arms wrapped around herself.

And for the first time since her father's funeral, she cried.

* * *

The euphoria that swept through the camp when the war ended was odd, to say the least. Almost unnatural. Hawkeye couldn't even muster up a smile as she stowed away the supplies her comrades passed up to her in the supply truck. It should have been over months ago. It never should have started in the first place. So no, she couldn't smile. It would be a very long time before she could.

A hush fell outside, and Hawkeye noticed soldiers drifting away from their assigned tasks. She pushed the flap back to see what had caused the interruption. Up here, she had a decent view over the crowd so she could clearly see the grim-faced men escorting someone by. A man with his hands in shackles who nevertheless looked as if he was on his way to a banquet rather than a trial in Central. Kimbley let his gaze wander over the disgusted and fearful expressions around him, reveling in their knowledge of what he had done to his superiors. Most of them could only guess at the  _why_ because the reasons completely eluded their understanding.

Hawkeye didn't have to guess, and it was confirmed when Kimbley's eyes found her and his gloat widened. They called him insane, and they were right. It was the same madness that had consumed her father. The need not only to  _have_ power, but to  _use_ it, always feeding and never sating his need for destruction and chaos. A man like him wouldn't last two days in a peaceful society, and he knew it.

But Kimbley was a patient man. So he would wait, in a place where he could wear the blood on his hands with pride and not be punished for it. He would wait for a day when war broke out, society devolved into chaos, and he would once more be permitted to destroy to his heart's content.

And judging from the look he was giving her, Kimbley knew she would be there too. And he was looking forward to the reunion.

Without a word to her perplexed comrades, Hawkeye dropped down from the truck and wove through the crowd until she reached a place of relative isolation, back stiff and weighed down by a burden far heavier than that of her sins alone. Lately, the sigils on her skin felt less like a mere code and more like a living thing, a parasite that existed only to spread its own poison. And slowly, ever so slowly, that parasite was consuming its host.

Something glass and metal crunched under her boot. A metal chain snaked out from under her heel, the cheap glass beads glinting in the sun. Not far from the bracelet lay a small, dark-skinned hand. Hawkeye kneeled and touched two fingers to the wrist, not surprised at the lack of a pulse. The girl hadn't been dead long. The blood in her hair pointed to some kind of head trauma, but she was bruised and filthy and salty tear tracks marked her cheeks. It looked as if she had fallen asleep like that, curled up in the shade of a crumbled wall, and simply not woken again.

Hawkeye looked around at the devastated ruins of this village. There was no one left to bury her. That was true of many Ishvalans, but for some reason Hawkeye couldn't make herself leave. The sniper roved through the buildings until she found a serviceable shovel that looters hadn't thought to take and committed herself to the hard labor. The work was exhausting, but she didn't stop digging even when her hands were blistered and her throat parched for water. Once the grave was deep enough, Hawkeye scooped up the child in her arms and laid her in the earth like she was putting her to bed. It took longer to shove all the dirt into place with her own hands, and she left the shovel buried spade-down in the mound for a pitiful marker.

As she sat on her knees piling up the dirt around the marker, Hawkeye's back prickled with the feeling of someone watching. It wasn't an enemy, though. As if the alchemy had the sentience to recognize its master, a warm shiver crept up her spine that made her think of the last morning she spent in her father's house.

"Everyone's heading out now," Roy told her. "You'll get left behind."

Hawkeye said nothing, staring at her blistered and callused hands resting on the mound. She heard Roy step closer. "Is that for a fallen comrade?" he asked quietly.

"No, sir," Hawkeye answered, subdued. "An Ishvalan child. She was...just left here, so I thought I should..."

To his credit, Roy did not point out that such an effort was a pointless act of charity that would never absolve her. Nor did he comfort her, which she would have hated even more. He crouched down next to her. "Let's go. The war is over, Riza."

"No, it's not," Hawkeye murmured, and the grave marker blurred in her vision. "Not in me, at least. It never will be for as long as I live."

Once she had blinked back the tears, Hawkeye looked at Roy, and there was so much pain and remorse in his eyes that she had to look away. She remembered, with bitter regret, how Roy used to look at her. She remembered his lips inches from hers and his gentle embrace, like she was something fragile and cherished, but even that had been tainted by the expectations laid on them by her father. God, even  _Roy_ was all her fault. Every life he took with flame alchemy was another life he might  _not_ have taken had she never revealed the tattoo to him.

"I-I trusted you," Hawkeye whispered, and she heard Roy draw a sharp breath. "But I can't blame you, not when I gave you my father's research of my own free will. It was my decision to make. And even if this was not the future I intended...I can never take that decision back."

How could she have  _possibly_ thought it was safe to unleash this weapon onto the world, the same weapon that drove her father to an early grave? What on earth possessed her father to entrust something so dangerous in the hands of an ignorant girl? If these past few years had proven anything, it was that Hawkeye was not fit to carry those secrets. The only way to make sure flame alchemy would never be misused was to keep it from being used  _at all_. To take that duty out of her hands completely, out of  _anyone's_ hands.

Hawkeye took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I have a favor to ask of you. It may be hard for you."

"Anything," Roy said at once. He took her hand in both of his, breathless in his earnestness. "God, Riza,  _anything_. Whatever I can do to make this...to make it  _right_ , just tell me."

"...I want you to burn my back."

His reaction was sudden and expected. Roy snatched his hands back and leapt to his feet. "Just what kind of  _monster_  do you take me for?" he snarled.

"Roy, just listen to me..."

" _No!_ " Roy cut her off. "I won't listen, and I  _won't_ burn you! Not  _ever!_  How can you even ask me something like that?"

Hawkeye hung her head, fingers digging convulsively into the sand. " _Please!_  Please...try to understand. This is the  _only_ way I could possibly atone. If I can't restore the lives taken by my father's alchemy, then I can at least prevent the creation of  _another_ Flame Alchemist. So please, Roy, do this one thing for me. Take this curse off my back and let me walk from here as myself, as Riza Hawkeye. Not as a symbol of everything  _wrong_  with this country."

Roy said nothing, and the shadow he cast on the child's grave was absolutely still. Hawkeye blinked back useless tears and got to her feet slowly, letting him see all of her resolve and none of her despair. The conflict waging in his expression was almost a palpable thing as he wrestled with his own inner demons. Roy made as if to argue, but the words never came. He turned his head sharply away, shoulders shaking.

"Alright. I'll...I'll burn you, just enough to make the alchemy illegible. Any more than that would...be an unnecessary risk."

Hawkeye nodded as the halting words washed over her like a cold rain, numbing and cleansing all at once. She shut her eyes and breathed deeply, at last able to smile. Perhaps it would not erase the blood from her hands, but all the rest—the feeling of being stained, imprinted, of being the bearer of some unholy plague—would be gone.

"Thank you, Roy..."

"Don't move."

Hawkeye froze, heart pounding in fright as she wondered for one wild notion that he intended to burn her  _now_. But all thoughts like that were blown from her mind when Roy took her in his arms and pulled her against him, pressing his lips to hers without bothering to warn her or even ask for permission. Her eyes fluttered open, startled, and she almost pulled away, but even without words Roy still somehow managed to be very insistent.

A shiver raced through her, and Hawkeye let herself be drawn into his embrace, clutching the fabric of his coat in both hands. He teased her chapped lips with his tongue and withdrew playfully, inviting her to give chase, something she was now only too happy to do. When they broke apart, Hawkeye's breath was ragged like she'd been running for hours.

"God," Roy laughed, throwing his head back giddily. "I've been waiting an entire war to do that!"

Hawkeye pulled back to look at him, surprising herself with her response. "What on earth were you waiting  _for?_ "

Roy grinned hungrily. "Don't remember now," he quipped and kissed her again. Hawkeye threaded her fingers through his hair with a soft noise in her throat. Roy's groan made her hot and lightheaded as the kiss deepened and they learned the taste and feel of each other, heedless of the traces of grit and blood in each other's mouths.

Rock shifted nearby. Hawkeye's hand shot to her holster, and at the same time Roy spun her around so he could raise his gloved hand. The snake blinked at them balefully from the shadow of a rock, tongue flicking out and in like it was mocking them before it slunk out of sight. Hawkeye breathed out slowly and lowered her gun. Roy's arm was still around her, but it was not an attempt to shield her. He had turned her sideways so they both presented a smaller target while also allowing them both a clear shot at the enemy.

And somehow, she preferred it this way. Standing at his side, a skilled comrade, secure in the knowledge that they could protect  _each other_ when the need arose.

Roy sighed with more than a hint of frustration. "I guess we shouldn't linger."

"No," Hawkeye agreed. The moment gone, they put away their respective weapons and picked their way through the rubble. Hawkeye took one last look at the grave behind them and experienced a split second of déjà vu. She could almost see the young alchemist and his master's daughter standing shoulder to shoulder, so full of dreams and hope. Remembering what Hughes had told her about Roy's decision, she smiled. The dreams had changed and vastly, but the hope was still there. And maybe that was all that mattered.

"I meant to ask you something," Roy said without looking at her. He waved his hand vaguely. "Once all this is over...what are you planning to do? Where will you go from here?"

"Well, Major," Hawkeye said as she so easily fell into step just at his shoulder, "I suppose that depends on where  _you're_  going..."

* * *

The town reminded her of where she'd grown up. That was Hawkeye's first thought when she stepped off the train in Resembool and took her first breath of clean, windswept air. Beyond the town proper, there was nothing but rolling green hills and distant blue mountains for as far as the eye could see. It was warm for autumn and many people were out and about, but the bustling of humanity seemed muted and somehow not quite so intrusive. The absolute tranquility made Hawkeye wonder why anyone would ever consider living in a city.

"What a  _backwater_ ," Roy muttered under his breath when he came up beside her. "No theatres, no restaurants, only  _one_ bar...what do these people  _do_ all day?"

"I imagine they find ways to stay busy, sir," Hawkeye said diplomatically, smiling at his disbelieving snort. While Roy approached the ticket master, Hawkeye let her attention drift to the main street and the people going about their business. One little boy tugged his mother's hand and pointed at the soldiers in excitement. The mother seemed surprised, but she gave Hawkeye a friendly wave and smile before hurrying off. No doubt hoping to be the first to spread the gossip. But her attitude seemed hospitable enough, and Hawkeye hoped it was the same for the rest of the town.

Booming laughter drew her eyes back to Roy and the ticket master. The man wiped a tear from his eye, oblivious to Roy's discomfiture. "A  _taxi?_  You think you'll find a taxi around here? Hoo boy, you soldiers must not leave the city much! The only car in this town belongs to old Patrick, and good luck getting a ride from  _him_."

"Well, how else are we supposed to get to the Elric residence?" Roy demanded.

"Walk," the ticket master replied promptly. "It's only about seven or eight miles, I'm sure you can manage."

Roy turned an incredulous—and pleading—look on Hawkeye. She cleared her throat. "Perhaps there's a horse cart we could borrow from someone in town?" she suggested.

The ticket master scratched his head. "Well, come to think of it, my nephew came into town early this morning on an errand. He's leaving soon, but if you hurry, you might catch him on the road heading out…"

"I guess that'll have to do," Roy said in resignation. "Thank you, we appreciate your help."

"My pleasure," the ticket master said with a jaunty salute. "Oh say, what brings you to Resembool anyway? Seems kinda out of the way for the likes of you."

Roy threw a wink and a grin over his shoulder. "Tenth year anniversary! We thought we'd take a little weekend sojourn to celebrate!"

Hawkeye sighed and did her best to ignore the way the ticket master's eyebrows flew up. "Really, sir, must you...?"

"Yes, Lieutenant, I must," Roy chuckled. He subtly bumped her shoulder as they walked, lowering his voice. "Or didn't you notice it really  _is_ our tenth year anniversary? It was right around this time of year when I started coming to your father for tutoring."

Hawkeye glanced around them at the green leaves that were  _just_ beginning to change color, at the farmers harvesting their crop, and for the first time she noticed the slight chill in the breeze that heralded the coming autumn. Taking another look at the triumphant spark in Roy's eyes, she smiled thinly. "It's only been nine years, sir."

"Nine?" Roy blurted out, his smirk evaporating. "Really?"

"Yes, sir," Hawkeye answered and pretended not to notice while Roy made a quick count on his fingers, brow furrowed.

"Are you  _sure...?_ "

"I'm sure. You became my father's apprentice when you were sixteen. You're twenty-five now."

"Don't remind me," Roy grumbled irritably. "I think I found a gray hair this morning...oh damn, is that the cart we're looking for?  _Hey!_  Hey, hold up, we need a ride!"

Nine years, Hawkeye mused as they negotiated a ride and clambered into the back of the rickety cart that looked as if it had seen its fair share of hay and animals. It seemed like an absurdly long time when he said it out loud. She had changed so much from the young girl living with her reclusive father, and Hawkeye realized with a start that it had been several years since she thought of him at all. Berthold had faded to a distant shadow in her memory, and even her grief was somehow more distant. It wasn't that Hawkeye had erased him from her heart. Rather her heart was slowly healing and filled with many others who had become just as important to her.

But one of them stood out from the rest. Hawkeye took advantage of the lack of prying eyes and allowed herself to watch Roy for a moment. Many things had changed about them and between them, and from the outside, it might appear they had grown more distant, exchanging names for the more impersonal  _sirs_  and  _Lieutenants_. But at their core, nothing had changed. Hawkeye could still see that apprentice boy every time Roy cracked a childish joke or became flustered by the simplest things. Every time he gave her that private look involving an arched eyebrow and lips curved slyly and she responded with a tolerant sigh and a tiny smile of her own.

Together to the end...that was what they had promised. Of course their devotion to his goals had to come before their devotion to each other, but though the price was steep, the reward would outweigh it in the end. They had both endured worse. With a smile, Hawkeye remembered how they had addressed the issue after she promised to follow him into hell.

_So how is this going to work, Lieutenant Hawkeye? We can't be together in the conventional way. At least not until I've advanced far enough in the ranks that nothing short of the apocalypse will bring me down. Most women wouldn't put up with waiting that long._

_Most women also don't follow their men out to the battlefield, Lieutenant Colonel._

_...you have a point there._

_I never expected this to be conventional. And we've both established that there are more important things at stake than our physical needs. So put it this way, sir. I don't give a damn who shares your bed as long as I'm the only one who guards your back._

_Ha ha, okay then. And I suppose it's only fair for you to have the same freedom now that the tattoo is destroyed. Damn, this might be harder than I thought..._

_Only if you make it, sir._

"The Elric house is just ahead," the cart owner informed them, pointing at a white house on the hill. "That's the one you want, right?"

"That's right," Roy replied. "We'll talk with the older brother first. He seems to be the more skilled of the two. With any luck, they won't need any further training before the exam next year."

"Oh I see, out on recruitment, are you?" the cart owner said, and then he laughed. "Boy, I can't wait to see the looks on those kids' faces when they see such high ranking officers at their door!"

Hawkeye blinked. Roy did a double take and checked the report he carried. "Did you say... _kids?_  This report says Edward Elric is 31 years old..."

The driver cackled heartily. "You're way off! The kid's only eleven! Unless he had a serious growth spurt since that time  _I_  saw him."

"Lieutenant, what's the meaning of this?" Roy whined.

"It would appear that either these documents came back in time or someone made a grave error, Lieutenant Colonel," Hawkeye said jadedly, earning an irate look from her commander. She, personally, didn't see the point in getting angry. It was an honest mistake. And besides, those boys had to have learned their craft from  _someone_  so perhaps the trip wouldn't be a complete waste. Roy seemed to be of the same mind because as soon as the cart halted, he hopped down and marched up to the front door with Hawkeye right behind him. She examined the house curiously while he knocked. It was a quaint little place, though it looked as if some of the yard work had been neglected recently...

_Flash of red._

"Sir," Hawkeye said, nodding at the blood splashed on the edge of the doorjamb. Roy stilled and touched the splatter with the tip of his finger. His grimace told her enough. It was still fresh.

"We're going inside," Roy told the cart owner. "Wait out here."

"Uh...sure?"

Roy tried the handle and they let themselves in. There were no lights on, no sounds of movement, but recent dirty dishes in the sink showed that someone still lived here. Hawkeye examined a few photos on a table, most showing a lovely brunette with two golden-haired boys. There was more blood inside, a few small drops every two steps with the trail ending at an open door into some kind of study. Roy shared a glance with her and moved to the study entrance first.

His reaction was immediate and disturbing. Roy paled, eyes wide and lips parted in shock. "God," he breathed.

"What is it, sir?" Hawkeye asked and peered inside as well. Her gut roiled at the gruesome sight. An enormous transmutation circle was chalked on the stone floor, smeared with so much blood that Hawkeye couldn't fathom anyone surviving its loss. Something had been dragged—or dragged itself—over to an empty pedestal in the corner, but the trail ended there.

Hawkeye started to step inside, but Roy gripped her arm to keep her back. "Stay here, Lieutenant. Don't touch the array."

She waited anxiously while Roy strode over to a table laden with notes and flasks of chemicals, giving the array a wide berth. Hawkeye took a deep breath and made herself look at the array again. Something terrible had happened here, the most likely explanation being a rebound. The Elric boys may have gotten in over their heads and tried something they weren't ready for. But if they had been hurt or killed, where were their bodies? Or was this a murder disguised as a transmutation gone wrong?

_And where was their mother while all this was going on?_

Roy cursed vehemently. Abandoning the alchemy notes, he swept back out of the study and down the hallway. "We have to find those boys."

"Yes, we should make sure they're alright," Hawkeye said worriedly.

"They'd  _better_ be so I can kill them myself!" Roy snapped, ignoring her alarmed look. He burst out of the front door, startling the cart owner. "There's no one home. Where else might the Elrics be?"

"Ah well, if I had to guess, you could try the Rockbells," the cart owner told him. "The two families have always been tightknit, and I used to never see the boys without their little girl. Course the brothers have been a little more reclusive since their mother died some odd years back..."

"Their mother's dead?" Hawkeye said in surprise.

"That could explain a few things," Roy muttered darkly. "Take us there."

The ride over the next hill to the Rockbell residence was silent and tension-filled. More than once Hawkeye shot a questioning look at her superior, but all of Roy's focus was on the little yellow house at the end of the road. He said nothing when the cart stopped and he strode up to pound on the door, kept his silence even when a short, elderly woman answered their summons and he shoved his way inside.

"Hey, what is this?" the elderly woman cried, shaking her fists at Roy. "You have no right to come barging in here, you—!"

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, but we're looking for the Elric brothers," Hawkeye explained hastily. "By any chance, are they...?"

" _We went to your house!_ " Roy shouted from the kitchen. "We saw the array, the floor...what  _was_ that? What the hell were you  _thinking_ when you drew that?"

Looking into the next room, Hawkeye stood frozen in the doorway. Roy had hoisted a young boy out of a wheelchair by his shirt while a young girl and a man wearing armor looked on fearfully. She received another shock when she realized the child in Roy's hands was missing two limbs, and Hawkeye barely recognized the gaunt face as that of one of the Elric boys. Now she had an idea of where all that blood had come from.

"Put him  _down!_ " the elderly woman shouted. "You leave that poor child alone, he hasn't fully recovered yet! For God's sake, he's missing an arm and a leg!"

"He's  _lucky_ that's all he's missing!" Roy retorted. "After performing human transmutation, you should have found this boy dead! You don't even know how much worse this could have been! The fact that he even survived—"

"L-Lucky...?"

Hawkeye jerked in surprise at the croaked word coming from the Elric boy. The girl in the corner squeaked in surprise, and the armored man made as if to reach out before he aborted the motion. The crippled child lifted his head to look at Roy bleakly, and even from across the room, Hawkeye could see how disturbing that eye to eye contact was. "You t-think I'm  _lucky?_ " he rasped. "Just  _look_ at me. Look at my  _brother_...or what's left of him.  _Then_  you can tell me how  _lucky_  I am."

"E-Edward…"

Another shock. Hawkeye stared incredulously at the suit of armor from which a  _child's_ voice had emerged. A leather gauntlet closed tentatively around Roy's wrist, achingly gentle. "Please...please don't blame him," he begged. "Don't take him away. It was  _both_ of us, it...we didn't know what we were doing, and we're  _sorry_. We're so sorry."

"My God," Roy whispered, slowly lowering the crippled boy back into the wheelchair. "You're the younger brother, aren't you? How did...?"

The armor ducked its head sorrowfully. "He saved me. Brother saved me."

No one said anything after that. There wasn't much anyone  _could_ say. The elder brother dropped his gaze to the floor while Roy stared at the crown of his head, and even Hawkeye couldn't have said what he was thinking. Human transmutation. By law, they were required to report the crime, but these boys looked to have suffered enough. It was unlikely they would try again, but to just  _leave_ them like this...

"Miss Rockbell," Roy said quietly. "I won't be arresting these boys. But...if you would allow me to discuss something with them?"

"Not without me, I trust," the elderly woman said pointedly.

"Of course," Roy acquiesced. "Lieutenant, you can wait outside."

Hawkeye nodded once and withdrew from the room. Lacking anywhere else to go, she took a seat on a small sofa near the front door. The young girl offered her tea, but other than that she was just as mute as Hawkeye. The conversation in the next room was muffled, difficult to discern, but Hawkeye had an idea of what Roy was about to offer those boys, and she honestly couldn't decide how she felt about it. On the one hand, the military  _would_ offer them a certain protection. Like hiding a tree in a forest, what better place to hide two talented alchemists than among other talented alchemists?

But still, they were only  _children_. Even younger than Hawkeye when she had chosen to join the military. And if  _she_ had been so unprepared, so disillusioned, then she couldn't imagine the trials those boys might face. The question was, she thought as she gazed into her tea, were they strong enough for it?

Roy certainly seemed to think so.

"Miss Riza," the girl said in a very small voice. "Have you...have you ever shot anyone?"

The question surprised her. Not that Hawkeye hadn't heard it before from other children, but usually it was asked by young boys with heroism in their eyes, hoping for a glimpse of the glorious life of a soldier. This girl, in contrast, kept her head angled down like she didn't want to know the answer.

"Yes, I have," Hawkeye said quietly and left it at that. There was no use lying, but she didn't have to give any details either.

"...I hate soldiers," the girl murmured, her hands shaking. "I hate war, the military, I hate all of it. My parents died because a soldier took them to the battlefield. And now that man is trying to make Ed and Al become soldiers. I don't  _want_ that! Please, don't take them away!"

"If they go, it will be their choice," Hawkeye assured her. "We won't take them by force, so the reasons must be their own."

The girl jerked her head in a nod, but she still wouldn't look up. Hawkeye watched her sadly, wishing she had better comfort to offer. This girl had known pain and sorrow, and too much of both for someone her age. And now she had seen horror and what terrible things could happen to innocent people. Hawkeye peeked at the door, wondering how much longer Roy would be.

"I'm sorry," the girl said after a moment. "I'm just...scared. I don't know what the military's really like, only that people die when they join it."

Hawkeye looked down into her tea pensively. "To be honest, I don't always like the military either because I never know when I'll be asked to take a life in the name of my country."

"Will Ed and Al be asked to do that?"

"...they might."

"Then why join in the first place?" the girl burst out in frustration. "What's the  _point?_  Why did  _you_ join the military if you don't like to kill?"

Hawkeye hesitated. It was a simple question, but she didn't quite know how to answer it. She could always say she had done it to serve her country and its leaders, except that she had established long ago they were not worth serving. To protect the people was closer to the mark, but Hawkeye knew that was a lie. So far she had killed far more than she'd saved. She shut her eyes for a moment, thinking back to the day of her father's funeral and the emptiness and lack of purpose that had driven her onward. Had a reason even existed in the first place? Something she had been willing to fight and kill and possibly even  _die_  for...?

In the next room, Roy's voice rose slightly and stirred something in her memory.

_Please don't jinx me, Miss Hawkeye...and anyway, you know I can't make a promise like that. In this profession, you never know when you'll wind up dead in a ditch. But it's a risk I'm willing to take if it means making this country a better place._

A ghostly laugh that sounded a little sheepish. _Man...that must have sounded childish, huh?_

_Not at all. There's nothing childish about caring..._

Hawkeye opened her eyes again, a serene smile playing on her lips. "I joined because there's someone I have to protect. Someone I  _chose_ to protect because I believe that he, not I, will be the one to make a difference. And when I take a life to save his, it is of my own free will and not because someone ordered me."

The girl gazed at her with wide eyes, and then her attention strayed to the closed door where Roy's voice emerged. And maybe it was Hawkeye's imagination, but she thought she glimpsed understanding and a flicker of kinship in the girl's expression. As if she knew exactly what it meant to sacrifice for others and the torment of watching and supporting from afar and hoping that would be enough. Knowing it  _had_  to be enough. The girl swallowed, resolve hardening in her eyes as if Hawkeye's words had gone straight to her heart.

"Until the day he reaches his goal..."

_I won't let them die._

"...I'll never hesitate to pull the trigger."


	8. Major Edward Elric

"Full funding for all of their private research, unlimited access to classified reference materials...these are only  _some_ of the privileges they would be afforded as alchemists of the State. Of course they will be expected to pledge loyalty to the military and the Fuhrer, but that's a small price considering what they could achieve in return."

A moment to let it all sink in. "Given time, they may even find a way to get their bodies back."

Ed let his aching eyes slip shut, an unmoving statue in the wheelchair. Oh, this man was good. He knew precisely what tempting bait to dangle in front of their noses. And it  _was_ tempting. Already his mind was racing ahead to the future. It would be work, hard work, but he and Al had dedicated six years of their lives to human transmutation so they were no stranger to improbable odds. And the military  _would_ offer far more potential than the books in Hohenheim's study...

But that flicker of hope burning in his heart—as desperate and passionate as the one that led him down this road in the first place—withered and died almost as quickly as it flared up. His shoulder and thigh ached with remembered pain, reminding him of the terrible price of thinking he could rewrite the laws as he saw fit. A massive hand that was ice to the touch rested on his shoulder, and Ed gripped the armrests of the chair convulsively, refusing to lift his eyes to the blank slate that had become his brother's face. No, he couldn't do it. He refused to let his pride lead him down a path of no return, and he would be damned if he dragged Alphonse down with him again. These bodies were their  _punishment_. He couldn't imagine the retribution that would follow should they try to regain what they had lost.

The soldier could talk all he wanted. It was  _over_.

Pinako hummed to herself, apparently mulling over all that the soldier had said. "Do you think these boys have what it takes to pass the exam, Mr. Mustang?" she asked, not bothering to hide her disbelief. Or her disapproval.

"The notes I found in that basement were more than enough to convince me," Mustang said, and he sounded like he was being truthful. He nodded in Al's direction. "Even if the theory of human transmutation didn't pan out, just the fact that you could bond a  _soul_  to an inanimate object is proof enough of your advancement."

"Brother is the one who figured out how to bind my soul," Al disowned quickly. There wasn't an ounce of blame in his tone, but Ed flinched anyway. "Although we both worked on the research equally...but Lieutenant Colonel, if we pass the exam, won't that make us soldiers?"

Mustang nodded. "It's true, you'll be required to serve the military in times of national emergency. As I've said, it's up to you to decide if the price is worth the reward."

Or Equivalent Exchange. Somehow, Ed found the strength to raise his head. Just enough that he could finally see the red arrays stitched to the back of the white gloves the soldier wore. So he was not merely saying it, he was speaking from personal experience. He had sold himself to the State. Ed wondered if the price had been worth it for him.

Pinako tapped her pipe on the ashtray. "Mr. Mustang...do you know what I did after these boys came stumbling to my door half dead and covered in blood? After I patched Edward up, I went over to see for myself what had happened. What I found there...that  _thing_ they created..."

Ed's gut swam with nausea, and he shivered with a violent cold.  _A mass of deformed flesh, exposed organs still pulsating with false life. A breathless gasp, a limp hand hitting the ground with a wet_ _slap_ _..._

"...whatever that thing was, it wasn't human! Alchemy is what created that monstrosity! Alchemy is what nearly killed these children! And now you're saying they should do  _more_ of that? Would you really have them go through that kind of hell again?"

In the ringing silence that followed, Ed sensed a slight shift in the man's posture and felt the weight of his gaze, like Mustang was measuring his worth according to some scale only he could see. And it hit him then that Mustang was not only urging him to join the military for his brother's sake...he was  _expecting_ it. He wasn't asking for permission from Pinako or anyone else. The choice was entirely his to make.

"I'm not forcing you, I'm merely offering you the possibility," Mustang repeated, each word holding just the right balance of admonishment and indifference. "When you activated that array, you made a decision that most adults would balk at. You're more than capable of taking responsibility for it. Tell me now, will you sit in that chair for the rest of your life wallowing in self-pity? Or will you stand up and seize the chance the military can give you?"

The words were harsh and cutting, as they were probably meant to be. And for the first time since the transmutation, Ed felt something hot and angry bloom in his chest. He called  _this_ wallowing? Ed had just lost two limbs, his brother's body, his mother for a  _second_  time and every dream he had ever dared to hope for. And even if all of those things were through his own fault, didn't he have the right to feel a little cheated?

Except...except that was the whole point, wasn't it? It  _was_ his fault. Ed could say he was sorry until he suffocated on the words, but it wasn't enough to say it. He had to  _fix_ it. Or at least he had to try. And if he failed...Ed turned his head so he could see Al's overlarge hand on his shoulder. If he failed, then this time he would make sure he was the  _only_ one to suffer for it.

"If you truly believe the possibility exists, then you should  _seek it out_. Keep moving, whatever it takes. Even if the way ahead lies through a river of mud."

For the first time, Ed locked eyes with the dark-haired soldier. There was no sympathy, no understanding or forgiveness. Mustang openly condemned what they had done where everyone else had hidden such feelings out of pity. And that just hardened Ed's resolve even more. No matter what it took, no matter how long or how steep the price, Ed  _would_  restore his brother and see him grown to his fullest potential. Let Winry and Granny weep for his lost innocence.

Now at long last, he was ready to be an adult.

Something changed in Mustang's expression. It was only there for an instant, just the barest flicker of satisfaction as he rose from his chair. "I've said all I came to say. If you don't want more soldiers to come knocking, I suggest you burn whatever is left in that house to hide the evidence of your crime. And if you ever decide to take me up on my offer, come see me in East City."

Ed almost smiled. Oh, he would come, but not for a long while yet. The military didn't take crippled soldiers. But once he convinced Granny and Winry to give him automail, once he had gone through the rehab and could stand on his own two feet again...then he would come. And he would be ready.

Mustang said his farewells, donned his coat and left. For an entire year, the only thing Ed would remember of him would be the sight of his broad back as he stepped out the door. And the unspoken invitation to follow.

* * *

Ed planted his feet apart and glared raw defiance up the steps to the Eastern Command Center. Apparently, the universe thought it was being funny. He had hardly waited until he mastered the staircase in the Rockbell house before he traveled to East City to meet with Mustang. His prosthetic leg was already sore after the short walk from the train station, and now he had to tackle this staircase that might as well have been a mountain. But up those stairs was his only chance to regain Al's body. He couldn't afford to balk at the first step just because of a little ache.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Mustang asked him. It was a perfectly valid question that could have come off as concerned, but Ed could see the hint of mockery in his eyes.

"Bow wow," Ed said flatly. "Want me to wag my tail too?"

Mustang's smirk only broadened, and he strode ahead with Lieutenant Hawkeye. "Bravado is all well and good, but it's understandable if you're nervous. If you'd like a hand to hold, I'm sure the lieutenant would oblige."

"Let's just get this over with," Ed muttered, sending a dark scowl at the newly-promoted colonel's back. He remembered very little of their initial meeting in Resembool, which was understandable given his emotional turmoil at the time. He had built this man up in his head during that arduous year, latched on to the faded memory of a strong, commanding voice and the aura of confidence and authority. Logically, Ed had known better than to think the real thing would live up to the fabricated image in his mind, and he had long since braced himself for the letdown.

But damn, he had never expected  _this_ much of a letdown.

Mustang and Hawkeye both started up the steps, never once looking back. Squaring his shoulders, Ed took first one step and then another. After five steps, his leg was throbbing. After fifteen, it was trembling, the muscles in his thigh burning from unfamiliar exertion. This was pathetic. A few years ago, he would have been  _running_ up these steps.

Mustang glanced back at him with a slight frown. "Want to pick up the pace, Elric? The exam will begin with or without you, and I'm not wasting another year waiting for you to make up your mind."

"I'm coming, sheesh," Ed grumbled under his breath. "Not all of us have freakishly long legs..."

"Honestly Ed, I don't think the brass will forgive your tardiness just because you're a little shorter than most—"

"I'm  _not_ short!" Ed snapped. He put his head down and forced his weary legs to carry him to the top at a light jog. He paused there to catch his breath, and when he finally looked up, it was to see Mustang giving him an odd look. "What?"

"Nothing...shorty."

Ed flushed, sputtering incoherently, and Mustang actually had the gall to laugh at him. "Oh Lieutenant, I think I found our new recruit's ultimate weakness!"

"Then may I suggest you refrain from antagonizing him until  _after_  the exam, sir," Hawkeye said stiffly. After a long and colorful car ride from the train station, it appeared she had lost patience with them both. "And Edward, I trust you'll be on your  _best behavior_  while we're in the command center?"

"Y-Yes, ma'am," Ed said automatically when she glared at him sharply, ignoring Mustang's soft snort. But once the three of them entered the command center, he was hard-pressed to keep his eyes to himself. He had never seen so many soldiers in one place, and Ed worried he would lose Mustang and Hawkeye in the blue ocean. His bright red coat garnered a few curious looks, but no one stopped them until they arrived at a set of large doubled doors with a line of nervous civilians cooling their heels outside. Another soldier wearing glasses looked up from his ledger and saluted.

"How may I assist you, Colonel Mustang?"

"I'm escorting another candidate for the State Alchemy Examination."

The soldier barely even glanced at Ed before giving a dismissive snort. "Oh I see, a  _candidate_. That's cute, sir, but this isn't a daycare. Take your kid somewhere else."

For the first time, Mustang actually showed a hint of impatience. "Do I look like I'm being cute?" he demanded.

"And for the record, I'm  _not_ his kid," Ed added loudly.

"You're not serious?" the soldier said, bushy eyebrows soaring high. "Sir, he's only a child!"

"Oh, is he?" Mustang said in false amazement. "And here I was under the impression he was a dwarf."

" _You son of a—!_ "

Hawkeye smoothly clapped a hand over his mouth. Ed fumed uselessly, at once furious and mortified by the looks he was getting from the other candidates, ranging from incredulous to amused like it was all some joke. He was probably smarter than all of them combined!

"Just check your list," Mustang said firmly, apparently done playing around. "You'll find Edward Elric's name already there along with authorization from General Grumman for him to take the test under special circumstances."

Special circumstances? Ed forgot his anger momentarily, studying the colonel's profile. It had never occurred to him that his age might be a problem, but if Mustang had to call in favors just to get him in the door, he was going to an awful lot of trouble for Ed's sake. And without even knowing whether he would pass or not.

"Very well," the soldier said with considerable reluctance. "Please take your place in line, Mr. Elric. Colonel Mustang, you may proceed to the viewing gallery. Once the Fuhrer arrives, the examinations will commence."

"The Fuhrer?" Mustang said in surprise. "Ah...Fuhrer Bradley is here?"

"His Excellency has elected to be part of the judging panel this year."

If anything, this only made Mustang even more nervous. He shot a glance at Hawkeye and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay, no big deal. It's fine, we can handle it. We'll be fine."

"We'll be fine or  _you'll_ be fine?" Ed said snidely, savoring Mustang's glare before Hawkeye steered him away. Ed joined the others in line, wondering what the Fuhrer was like. He had never even seen a picture of the man and had only vague memories of a voice on the radio. His musings were cut off when one of the doors opened and the first candidate was summoned inside. Ed sidled closer to try and get a peek, but he only caught a glimpse of a vast audience chamber before the door was shut in his face. He scowled at the barrier, despising being forced to wait his turn, and leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

One of the other candidates came up to him, an older man with gray hair. "All right, kid, so what's the deal?"

"Huh?"

The man's smile was condescending like Ed was being deliberately stupid. "Come on, you don't expect me to believe you're actually trying for it? What's your specialty supposed to be? Playground games? I'll bet you can draw a hopscotch course better than an array."

Some of the others chuckled. Ed took a deep breath to rein in his temper. "You seem awfully confident for a guy who was probably still around when hopscotch was invented," he retorted. "Which was about three hundred years before the founding of Amestris, by the way, by some kids in Creta with too much time on their hands."

"I just don't get why the great Flame Alchemist is wasting his time on some little brat. Do you honestly think he expects  _you_ to pass?"

"If I don't, it's his loss, isn't it?" Ed said with a snort.

"This isn't some kiddie contest!" the man snapped, anger coloring his face. "I worked my ass off for a chance at this, and I'm not about to let you screw it up!"

"Careful, you're starting to sound a little  _worried_ about your chances."

The man gritted his teeth, but he turned away abruptly and went back to waiting with the others. Ed let the grin slide away, his thoughts running in troubling circles. The guy brought up a valid point, one that had been bothering him since he got here. Why hadn't Mustang turned him in? The colonel was taking a big risk by recruiting him instead. If the State found out what he and Al had done, there would be hell to pay, and Mustang would be in just as much hot water for helping to conceal their secret. Just what was his angle?

It wasn't long before the doors opened again and the first candidate walked out, stiff-backed and white-lipped. He gave them a half shrug and shook his head sadly before he let two soldiers escort him away. He had failed. A nervous ripple passed through the line of candidates as the bespectacled soldier leaned out of the door and beckoned.

"Mr. Elric, if you please."

Swallowing his nerves, Ed put on a mask of bold insolence and strode into the audience chamber like he owned the place. The chamber was huge, five times the size of the biggest barn in Resembool. Ed didn't gape, but he surveyed the room as well as he could with quick glances. Many soldiers lined the gallery on the second level, Mustang among them. Ed's escort left him standing in the center of the room with two other soldiers on either side, facing a raised dais where three judges and two bodyguards stood. The center judge stepped forward, a man with a patch over his eye and a sword that didn't look ceremonial.

"Welcome to the State Alchemy Examination, Edward Elric. I am Fuhrer King Bradley, and should you pass, you will answer directly to me."

Ed eyed the medals pinned to his uniform, trying to reconcile those with the aged face and pleasant, grandfatherly smile. He had expected someone a little more imposing, and the presence of only two guards was strange. It seemed like they should put a little more effort into protecting the leader of their country. If a nobody like Ed could just walk in and stand face to face with the man, what would stop an assassin from...?

The soldier to his left nudged him impatiently. " _Bow_ , idiot!"

Indignation flared in Ed briefly, but he could see no way to get out of it. He gave a short, graceless bow in the Fuhrer's direction, his ire growing when he heard a few snickers somewhere out of his line of sight. Bradley didn't seem to mind his ineptitude, but his head tipped to the side curiously. "Oh, would that be a steel prosthetic? Your right arm there."

Ed's hand drifted to his wrist where the cuff had ridden up and exposed the metal. He peeled off the white glove, and the snickers morphed into soft gasps and one or two impressed whistles.

"It...happened during the Eastern conflict," Ed said shortly. He had prepared for this beforehand, knowing the less details he offered, the easier the lie would be to keep up. "My left leg, too. I'd rather not talk about it, Your Excellency."

Bradley nodded gravely. "I understand, young man. And I commend you for your desire to serve the State despite such an ordeal. Or...could it be  _because_  of that?"

Sensing multiple eyes on him, Ed settled for another partial truth. "No one should have to go through what I went through."

While the other two judges conferred and the murmuring in the chamber increased, Ed took the opportunity to glance in Mustang's direction. The colonel was looking far too smug about this, arms crossed as he conversed easily with the people on either side. Bragging, Ed didn't doubt. So  _that_ was how this worked. Ed might get the silver watch, but Mustang would get the credit for being the one to recruit him. From the looks of it, Mustang thought he had this in the bag.

Ed took another look at the positions of the bodyguards, the distance between him and the Fuhrer. And inside, he allowed himself an evil chuckle.  _This_ was going to be fun.

"Very well," Bradley went on. "You may now proceed with your exam. Any example of your research or skill will do. If you require drawing material, simply ask and it will be provided."

"Thanks, but I don't need them," Ed said casually. With a flourish, he brought his hands together. The clap rang through the chamber as he knelt and pressed his palms to the shiny and very expensive floor. The tiles glowed and writhed beneath his fingertips, and Ed focused on the exact quantities and proportions he wanted. Transmuting without a circle was still very new to him, and the javelin that slowly formed was a little longer and thinner than he'd been going for, but it was the transmutation itself that silenced the room.

The last portion to be created was a large and wickedly sharp blade. Ed grasped the handle, holding the weapon point down with the ease of someone who had spent many long and desperate weeks hunting for food with crude wooden spears. He peeked at Mustang again and almost laughed at the mute shock on his face.  _That_ was more like it.

"My, my," Bradley said slowly. He alone had contained his surprise to a single raised eyebrow. "That's quite impressive."

 _You ain't seen nothing yet,_  Ed thought to himself. Without warning, he charged. The soldiers on either side of him reacted too slowly and were left floundering as he sprinted toward Bradley, javelin raised. He stopped just as the blade would have passed through Bradley's throat and held very still, aware of the guns aimed at his head. But they would have been too late, and they all knew it.

"You know," Ed said coolly, meeting the Fuhrer's gaze, "there are some who would see this as a great opportunity to assassinate you. In the future, you might want to rethink how you conduct these examinations."

Bradley didn't even twitch as he waved off the bodyguards, who holstered their weapons reluctantly. Ed stepped back and lifted the javelin away, impressed with the man's composure. Maybe he was a little more than he seemed after all.

"Good!" Bradley said, sounding pleased. "That's very good! You clearly have nerves of steel, young man! However...I'd say you still have much to learn about the world."

As Bradley turned away, a glint of reflected light caught Ed's eye, and he blinked when he realized the Fuhrer's sword was no longer in its sheathe, but in his hand. At the same moment, the top portion of his javelin hit the floor with a loud clang, sheared off just below the blade. Bradley chuckled heartily and threw a wave over his shoulder.

"You put on quite a show, my naïve young alchemist! Good luck with the rest of your exam!"

 _Now_ Ed gaped, knuckles white on the broken javelin. "W-When did he draw his...?"

"And  _that's_ why he's the Fuhrer," Mustang murmured, his words contemplative.

* * *

"I hope you realize how lucky you were in there," Mustang remarked as they made their way back down the steps before the command center. "The guards would have been well within their rights to shoot you where you stood."

"Hey, I'm still standing, aren't I?" Ed said flippantly. It was a lot easier to feel confident now that they were outside. "I got through it,  _and_ I impressed the Fuhrer! That's what you wanted, right?"

Mustang mirrored his smug look. "Still, I wouldn't make that little assassin routine a habit. Remember that State Alchemists are the military's faithful dogs. If you show the slightest sign of disloyalty, it's the pound for you."

Ed hopped the final two steps to the courtyard and turned back to wait for him and Hawkeye. "The same goes for you, Colonel," he said shrewdly. "I noticed something interesting in there. While everyone else was freaking out and drawing their guns, you didn't even leave your chair. You had your gloves on and could have fried me to a crisp, but you didn't even try. Some loyal dog."

Mustang paused, his eyebrows creeping higher and his frown growing deeper with every word. Ed expected him to flat out deny it or dig up some excuse, and it surprised him when Mustang merely sighed and turned to Hawkeye. "He has a point, doesn't he?" he said in defeat.

"Sir," Hawkeye said with forced patience, "when such a situation arises, it's in your best interest to at least strike a pose."

 _Pot calling the kettle black,_  Ed thought to himself. Her gun hadn't left its holster either.

Mustang shrugged a little and continued walking, smiling very slightly. "Looks like you caught me, Elric. I'm an ambitious man. The death of the Fuhrer would have opened up a power vacuum in the higher ranks just waiting to be filled by the likes of me."

"You're being awfully upfront about this," Ed said with a sly grin. "Aren't you even a little worried I might tattle?"

"Of course not," Mustang replied easily. "If I go down, it's an easy matter to take you with me."

Ed's grin slipped. "What do you...?"

"Above all, there are three laws that State Alchemists must abide by," Mustang went on. "Do not oppose the military, do not create gold, and  _do not create humans_. Between the two of us, only a third of that law remains intact, but the creation of humans is a far more serious crime than simple treason. It goes against everything alchemists stand for, making you not only a felon, but a sinner. Some would even call you a murderer since what you created didn't survive. If anyone found out what you did...well, losing the watch would be the least of your worries."

Ed stopped walking, his blood running cold. Mustang looked back at him with absolutely no trace of a smile. "Understand now? I know  _everything_ , Ed. Your life depends on me keeping my mouth shut."

"Y-You don't have any proof!" Ed stammered, fighting to keep his voice steady. "I burned it down like you told me to. There's nothing left! Without the array or a body..."

"I have a body.  _Your brother's_ body. That's all the proof I need. And I can think of plenty of people who'd want nothing more than to haul him off to a lab so they can figure out exactly how you bound his soul."

"You leave him out of it!" Ed shouted. He snapped his mouth shut and looked around quickly, paranoid that someone might be close enough to hear. He glowered at Mustang, his initial dislike blazing into full-blown hatred. So that was how it was. The collar might belong to the military, but the one holding the leash was Mustang. Ed couldn't believe he had let this happen.

"Deep down, you knew I wasn't doing this out of the goodness of my heart," Mustang said, a bit of the callousness leeching away. "But try to see things from my perspective. I  _could_ turn you in and receive a minor commendation, but by my way of thinking, I'll gain far more prestige in the long run for bringing a talented alchemist into the military. I don't want your crimes uncovered any more than you do. As long as your secret remains a secret, we both stand to gain."

"You—you miserable—!"

"You still have a week before the official results are read," Mustang concluded, walking away for good this time. "I suggest you take the time to relax and enjoy East City. And really  _think_ about what you're getting into. If you can't stomach it, go home. Trust me, this will be your very last chance."

"But I can't go back," Ed whispered to nobody, the magnitude of his decision starting to weigh on him now. He had destroyed his home knowing that doing so would make it impossible to give up. He and Al would risk it all to gain what they had lost because living the way they were now was not an option. He shut his eyes and hung his head, more than anything missing the guidance of his teacher and the comfort of his mother. He missed having someone to turn to who would tell him what the right choices were and why, even the hard ones.

But he didn't have that. Ed only had his own skewed judgment to go on, and that would have to do.

A gentle hand brushed his shoulder. "Don't take him too seriously," Hawkeye said, her expression sympathetic. "He's really not as harsh as he likes to pretend."

Ed snorted. "He could've fooled me."

"He won't turn either of you in," Hawkeye added, startling him. "Just because you don't understand his reasons doesn't mean you can't trust him. Believe me, you can."

And with that cryptic remark, she followed after her superior, leaving a very confused Ed behind.

* * *

Before he knew it, three years had passed. The search for the Philosopher's Stone consumed him. Every moment that was not spent doing the military's bidding was spent on this impossible quest that was just taking too damn long. Al aided him every step, just as eager to retrieve their bodies as he was, but for Ed it was a hunger that could never be sated. Four months after getting his watch, he ran out of leads and grudgingly went to his superior to see if he had any suggestions. Mustang told him straight up that the favor would cost him. Ed retorted that he really didn't give a damn.

Three years later, Ed was still asking for leads, and Mustang had yet to make him pay up. Eventually, Ed stopped looking over his shoulder every time he came to East City, but he still couldn't bring himself to trust him as Hawkeye had suggested. The man was just too much of everything Ed didn't like. An arrogant, manipulative, self-assured bastard who looked down on everyone else as beneath him. It made Ed alternatively want to shrink into the ground and sock him in the nose every time they met.

And the most infuriating thing was that Mustang still  _refused_  to treat him as an equal, either as a soldier or an alchemist. Maybe he was Mustang's inferior in rank and age, but when it came to alchemy, Ed was miles ahead. But every time he set foot in that office, it was always the same thing.  _Oh, haven't found the Stone yet? Sheesh Fullmetal, what's taking so long? If you keep messing around like this, you'll be a soldier until you retire._

Okay, he didn't say  _exactly_ that, but it was what he meant. It was all in that cocky smirk and the way that black eyebrow arched  _just_ so. But today, that would end. This was the day Ed had been waiting for, the day he would grind that pompous mug into the ground and get some payback on the man he had been chained to since he was twelve.

...at least he would once Mustang  _stopped blowing things up._

_Snap! FWOOSH!_

" _Gah!_ " Ed howled when the roiling flames set the tail of his coat on fire. He ditched it and dove for cover behind a mound of rubble. "Bastard, you almost got me for real that time!"

"I  _will_ get you for real if you keep giving away your position," Mustang called out, laughing. Ed crouched low behind the mound, keeping a wary eye on Mustang's silhouette through the smoke. The haze was so thick that he couldn't even see their spectators anymore. The battle assessment had gotten so aggressive that the boundaries of their combat zone had expanded and forced many to run for cover.

Ed scrubbed the sweat from his forehead before it could run into his eyes. He didn't even have to be near the flame strikes to feel the blazing heat. He knew Mustang wouldn't kill him, or even hurt him too seriously, but it still made his heart pound in visceral fear and cooled his initial confidence. He had to be careful. Ed wanted a clean victory, which meant getting close enough to deal a finishing blow. That wouldn't be easy with Mustang essentially carpet-bombing the parade grounds.

"You know, Fullmetal, this would be so much easier if you weren't such a  _small_  target."

Ed bared his teeth in a silent snarl, ears pounding. Nope, he was  _not_ falling for that again. Glancing toward his smoldering coat, Ed clapped very softly and laid his hands on the ground. The concrete bucked as energy rippled through it and swelled beneath his coat until it vaguely resembled a small person crouched on the ground. As Mustang turned toward the decoy, Ed sprinted out of hiding and rushed him from behind, not slowing down even when Mustang realized he had been tricked and whirled to face him.

"Too slow!" Ed bellowed and slashed at the alchemic symbol on the glove, shredding it with his automail blade. Mustang's startled curse was music to his ears. But before Ed could attack again, Mustang pivoted out of range and withdrew his other hand from his pocket. Ed nearly swallowed his tongue at the sight of a second glove that he hadn't even known was there. "Y-You had that the whole time?" he sputtered.

"All war is deception," Mustang quoted smugly. In the split second before he snapped his fingers, Ed sensed the alchemy at work, drawing in the oxygen to blast him off his feet and maybe leave him with a minor burn or two. Desperate to win, he brought his hands together and  _shoved_ the oxygen away. And it was with a trace of panic that he realized his mistake because instead of dispersing, it actually condensed closer to Mustang. Ed saw the colonel's expression go from shock to alarm as the spark left his hand, saw him grit his teeth in concentration as he tried to correct Ed's error.

He wasn't quite fast enough.

_BOOM!_

The blast flung Ed into the air, and he hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. Shocked and disoriented, he tried twice to regain his feet and ended up overbalancing and falling down again. His body trembled in reaction and his ears rang endlessly, giving the world a muffled, not-quite-there quality.

 _So THAT'S what getting blown up feels like,_  Ed thought in grim humor. Finally, he staggered upright and moved toward where he thought the colonel might be. Mustang was on his hands and knees with his head cradled in one hand, still struggling to reorient himself. His other hand was braced on the ground, fingers digging into the pulverized concrete. Ed grinned. A sitting duck. He crept closer, right arm drawn back and blade flashing in the sun. He would get Mustang to surrender first, and then make sure he was actually okay. Really, Mustang only had himself to blame. He should have realized he was dealing with a prodigy.

But just before Ed could strike, Mustang stiffened, staring fixedly at their shadows. He reacted faster than Ed would have thought possible and tackled him to the ground. They grappled furiously, but Mustang had the advantage of size and weight and pinned him easily, straddling him to keep him from going anywhere. Ed tried to attack, to clap,  _something,_  but within seconds he found his right arm restrained and the muzzle of a gun pressed under his chin. He gaped at the weapon, not in fear but in outrage.

"You cheated! The assessment is alchemy  _only,_  dumbass!"

Mustang started at his words, seeming to shake off some kind of daze. Ed's anger petered out as quickly as it had come, replaced with confusion at the scared and slightly savage look in dark eyes. He was so accustomed to seeing only haughty conceit that the sudden rush of varying emotions was completely foreign. Then he looked down again, at the gun still pressed to his jaw, and Ed realized with a sick feeling that the safety was off and Mustang's finger was not only  _on_  the trigger, but  _pulling_ it.

If the gun had been loaded, he would be dead.

"Colonel?" Ed murmured, suddenly aware of the tremor in the hand that wielded the gun. He closed his fingers around his wrist, and the touch seemed to help draw Mustang out of whatever dark pit he had been in. "Hey...you okay?"

Mustang shut his eyes, and just like that Ed was locked out again. He holstered his gun and got to his feet, breathing heavily. "F-Fine. I'm fine."

Ed pushed himself upright as Mustang stepped back, still searching his stricken face for clues on what the heck had just happened. Both of them jumped when boots crunched in the gravel nearby and the Fuhrer came striding into sight, a reminder of why this whole thing had been started in the first place. Bradley looked them both over, and once satisfied that they were relatively unhurt, he clapped. "Well done, well done indeed! But it is a shame that myself and the judges were unable to see the final outcome from our seats."

"It's as you see now, Your Excellency," Mustang said, betraying nothing in his bland tone. "I subdued Major Elric and forced him to surrender."

" _What?_ " Ed said furiously. He scrambled to his feet and pointed an accusing finger. "I never surrendered to you! I would have won if you hadn't—!"

"We all have our off days, Fullmetal," Mustang cut him off, that familiar smirk back in place. "There's no need to take it so personally."

"Indeed, you should accept your loss graciously, Major," Bradley reprimanded him. But he turned to Mustang, smiling pleasantly. "Although, if this was an  _off day_  for Fullmetal, I shudder to think what might have happened in a true fight to the death. You had best watch your back, Mustang. This young man could give you a run for your money someday."

For some reason, his words caused another crack in Mustang's mask, another flash of  _something_ in his eyes. Something angry, and also...defeated. Ed almost asked Bradley what he had meant, but the Fuhrer was already walking away. And when he looked the other way, so was Mustang.

* * *

Mustang's weird reaction during the duel plagued Ed for the rest of the day. After the parade grounds were repaired and Ed was free to return to the dorms with Al, he wasted no time confiding in his little brother what had happened. Al was just as stumped as he was, but he still offered some tentative insight. "I heard once that soldiers who have been to war get flashbacks of the battlefield. Usually it happens when they feel threatened or when something reminds them of what they went through. Maybe that's what happened to the colonel?"

And Ed had to grudgingly concede Al's point. They were no strangers to being haunted by past memories, and a war had to be ten times worse than a rebounded transmutation. Still, it bothered him. Enough that Ed decided to head out on a solitary walk through the city to clear his head and get his thoughts sorted out. Logically, he was aware that his superior had been one of the many alchemists called to Ishval, but he just couldn't fathom anything bad enough to shake up Colonel Mustang, of all people. The man was a rock. He faced down danger with the same detached calm with which he insulted Ed on a daily basis.

For some reason the very idea of him being afraid, helpless, a  _victim_...it just wasn't right. And the realization made Ed pause right in the middle of the sidewalk. Since when did he think of Mustang in those terms? Like some sort of...of  _father figure?_  He shuddered just thinking the word. Mustang wasn't his parent or his mentor, wasn't anything like that. He was human like everyone else, he had flaws.  _Boy_ , did he have flaws.

"Still bothers me," Ed muttered, unsure if he was more irritated at Mustang or himself. He sighed and turned around to go back to Al, but he paused when something caught his eye in the window of the pub to his left. There weren't many patrons this early in the day, which made the man in a military uniform stand out all the more. Mustang was hunched over the bar, staring into the depths of his drink like he was trying to make it evaporate with his mind. He didn't even lift his head when the barkeep said something to him, offering only a small shrug.

Ed noticed his reflection frowning and made an effort to erase it. It wasn't any of his business what Mustang did after hours. Though he realized now that he had never even thought about what Mustang did or where he went when he wasn't at headquarters.

 _Again, ignoring the human side of him,_  an accusing voice hissed. Ed dithered on the sidewalk, coming up with half a dozen valid reasons why he should just walk away and go back to his brother. But in the end he pulled the door open and swept inside, nose wrinkling at the polished wood and alcohol smell that pervaded the room. The place wasn't a dump, but it wasn't exactly kid-friendly either, as evidenced when the barkeep scowled at him.

"Hey, no kids—"

Ed held up his silver watch, and the man shut his mouth, though he still seethed. "Relax, I'm not here to buy anything."

Mustang gave a sluggish start, half turning as Ed slid onto the stool beside him, and his sigh was more resigned than anything. "Aren't you a little short to be sitting there?"

"Geez, you're so far gone you can't even put together a decent insult," Ed snorted in disgust.

"I'm  _not_ drunk," Mustang said forcefully. He turned to Ed, blinked several times and went back to slouching and glaring at his drink. "Okay, I'm a  _little_ drunk. Not that it's any of your business. That  _is_ generally what people come to bars for."

"People do. You don't."

Mustang's lips curved into a sneer, and there was an edge of darkness to his chuckle. "Oh Fullmetal, how little you know me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Go back to the dorms, Ed. Your brother's waiting for you."

"He can wait a little longer," Ed said decisively. "What happened during the assessment today? For a moment, it was almost like you didn't recognize me. Like you weren't even there anymore. Al seemed to think you were...I dunno, having a flashback or something."

"A flashback," Mustang said quietly, taking another slow draught. "I wouldn't call it that. A flashback implies reliving a specific memory, a single moment. But I've been caught in dozens of explosions, had hundreds of people try to kill me from behind. The conditions of the assessment just...came together in a way to make me react like it was a true battle. In case you're wondering, that's the reason I tried to avoid the fight at first. One of us was bound to take it too far."

"One of us, or just you?" Ed hazarded, wondering if he was pushing too hard. "Were you really trying to protect me? Or...were you just afraid you'd be reminded of Ishval?"

Mustang stiffened, his eyes flashing with that same hollow ferocity he had shown toward Bradley. "Most people know better than to speak of that in front of me."

"I must have missed the memo because nobody told me," Ed replied, shrugging.

"And I'm telling you now!" Mustang said harshly. "Don't say another word. If it's war stories you want, talk to Gran. I'm sure he'd be  _delighted_ to share all the gory details."

Taken aback, Ed leaned on the bar and studied his tired profile. "I don't want the gory details. I'm just curious what was so bad about it that you feel the need to drink yourself into a coma."

"Everyone has their own methods of coping."

"You call getting drunk off your ass  _coping?_ "

"Oh, cut the preacher act, Fullmetal," Mustang grumbled. He rubbed his temple like the conversation was giving him a headache. "It doesn't suit you."

"Yeah well, the whiny alcoholic act doesn't suit you!" Ed retorted. He snatched the glass away from his slack grip and slid it across the wood to the barkeep. "He doesn't need any more. Cut him off."

"Pay no heed to the talking shrimp," Mustang said loudly and groped after the drink. "I'm a paying customer, he's not about to stop serving me—"

"The talking shrimp actually has a point, sir," the barkeep spoke up. He smiled unabashedly at Mustang's sullen glare. "Sorry, I know you too well. If this goes on any longer, I'll be calling your lieutenant to come pick you up, and you know how well she reacts to  _that_."

"I'll take my business elsewhere," Mustang warned, though it sounded far more petulant than threatening.

"No, you won't. Let me go call you a cab."

"Don't bother," Mustang snorted, standing in a last show of defiance and making his way out the door. Ed grabbed the colonel's forgotten coat from the back of his chair and followed him outside where Mustang had paused on the sidewalk, glancing up and down the street with a deep frown.

"What, you forget how to get home?" Ed snickered.

Mustang cast him a disgusted look. "The alcohol only took the edge off. Half my mind is still back in that desert right now. Do you really want to keep pushing me, Fullmetal? When my mind is in a state like this? You have no idea, not a damn clue..."

He started to totter away, leaving a silent Ed staring after him. He trotted after his superior, still too curious to be completely dissuaded. Above all, he hated being ignorant. Ed had been called a human weapon for three years, and he was still no closer to understanding why the State Alchemists were so hated and feared.

"So are you going to tell me what it was like?" Ed inquired as he passed the coat to Mustang.

"Not a chance."

Ed scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Fine, I get it. It's a soldier thing, right? I'll find out for myself when the State Alchemists get called to war again, which seems to happen about once a decade..."

Mustang stopped walking, his expression turning hard. "Fullmetal...do you know why Fuhrer Bradley really allowed the assessment to take place? I assure you, it wasn't a test of your aptitude. Only a fool would kick you out of the military based on one botched recertification. The whole point was to find out which of us was stronger."

"But...why?" Ed asked, puzzled. "Why would he need to know that?"

"For the same reason he warned me to watch my back," Mustang told him. "I'm not a fool, I'm sure he knows of my ambitions. It was a reminder that you're  _his_ weapon, not mine."

"I'm  _no one's_  weapon!"

"Aren't you? If it came down to it and Bradley decided I needed to be done away with, what makes you think he won't ask you to carry out the assassination? You being one of the few who could potentially take me down in a real fight?"

The question stopped him cold, and Ed's first instinct was to deny the very possibility. It was ludicrous for Mustang to even bring it up. Except that…except that Ed had seen for himself what the military was like. He had seen the corruption and power struggles, the way loyalties switched hands like bartered goods. But it was one thing to see it happen among the brass and another to include the Fuhrer among their cutthroat ranks. He had never seen him be anything but genial and benevolent.

But would a truly genial and benevolent man keep Amestris in a perpetual state of war? Would a man like that have ever made it to the top if that was the only face he had?

"Y-You're being paranoid," Ed stammered, wishing he sounded more confident. "Come on, it's not like Bradley would ever order me to—"

"You forget, Edward," Mustang said softly. "This is the same man who ordered the extermination of Ishval. He didn't only want to conquer their land, he wanted them all  _killed_  down to the last man, woman and child."

Ed's eyes went wide, his throat suddenly dry. "So it really  _was_  an extermination?" he said in a hushed voice. "They really ordered the State Alchemists to...to..."

Mustang said nothing, instead averting his gaze, and somehow that was even more frightening. As the colonel wandered over to collapse on the curb, it occurred to Ed that he had never actually seen Mustang kill someone. It only made it that much harder to see those alchemic flames sweeping through the streets of Ishval, incinerating everyone in their path. Men and women. Insurgents, monks, housewives...

Children...

Ed swallowed hard, striving to banish little Nina from his mind as he took a seat beside Mustang. "But...but it was orders, right? You didn't have a choice. Even I know what happens when soldiers don't obey orders in war..."

"Stop making excuses for me!" Mustang snapped, pressing the heel of his palm to his eye. " _You_  wouldn't have followed those orders, you would have found a way around them. You always do, you damn noble brat..."

Ed had nothing to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut, pondering. If he had been in Mustang's position,  _would_ he have found a way? He sure as hell would have tried, but short of deserting his post and fleeing the country, Ed doubted he would have succeeded. And it could still happen, he thought with a cold sense of dread. Every day he failed to restore Al was another day the border conflicts to the south and west could explode into warfare and he could be called on to do his duty as a soldier. Most of the time it was something he could ignore or pretend didn't exist. Now though...

"Colonel," Ed said hoarsely, wrapping his arms around his knees, "I never want to go to war."

"Good," Mustang said, standing and dusting the dirt off his pants. "Because I'll never let you."

The solemn oath made Ed jerk in surprise, staring without comprehension as Mustang began to walk away. There was no way Mustang could keep a promise like that, not if the higher-ups ordered otherwise, yet he acted like his word alone would make it true.

 _Just because you don't understand,_ Hawkeye murmured in his mind,  _doesn't mean you shouldn't trust._

"Hey!" Ed called after him. "Hey, wait a minute! If you're so against what the military has done, then why are you still a soldier? Why are you trying so hard to advance the ranks?"

To his aggravation, Mustang only laughed, his mood apparently improved. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going to tell you."

"Why not?" Ed demanded. "How is that fair?"

Mustang threw a vague wave over his shoulder as he rounded the corner. "Who said anything about fair? You're the prodigy, I'm sure you'll figure it out."

Ed grumbled something unflattering under his breath, chin propped in his hands. Eventually, he got up and made his way back to the dorms, still brooding over the entire encounter. And it was only later that night as he lay in bed that something else occurred to him, and Ed punched his pillow crossly.

"Figures! The  _one time_  he calls me a prodigy, and he's so smashed he probably won't even remember when he wakes up!"

* * *

"207," Ed muttered as he passed the apartment doors. "208...209…210, here it is."

He rapped the door with his knuckles, trying not to be too loud since the hour was late. A noise behind him made Ed jump, but it was only one of the other tenants coming up the stairs, fumbling with an armload of groceries. Ed kept his head down as the man passed, his paranoia running rampant when he remembered the way Envy could alter his form...but he almost immediately dismissed the notion. Fuhrer Bradley— _Wrath_ —had no reason to set a tail on him now that Ed had agreed not to go against their plans. And even so, he wasn't doing anything wrong. He had a perfectly valid reason for coming here.

But even that logic did nothing to comfort him, nor to erase Bradley's chilling warning from his mind.

_What was that lovely young girl's name again? Ah yes, Winry Rockbell..._

"Lieutenant Hawkeye?" Ed called and knocked again. He heard Hayate bark in excitement and then whine and scratch at the door. "Lieutenant, are you home?"

"Edward?" Hawkeye called from somewhere within. "I'm sorry, can you wait a moment? I just got out of the shower."

"Oh, uh yeah, no problem!" Ed stammered, grateful there was no one around to see him flush as he tried to banish certain  _images_  from his mind. "Sorry to bother you now. I just came to return...um, that thing I borrowed."

"Oh, that," Hawkeye said, sounding surprised. "There was no rush. You didn't need to come so late."

"Yeah, well," Ed muttered and left it at that. He wasn't about to admit that just holding the gun made him extremely uneasy. Or that his reasons for coming to see her had less to do with the gun and far more to do with the barely controlled rage on Mustang's face upon learning that his subordinates would be scattered across the country where he couldn't protect them. Constant reminders of who was holding his leash. Hostages, like Winry.

He only had to wait a few minutes before muffled footsteps approached and the door opened. Before Ed could even think to avoid it, Hayate darted over the threshold and bowled him over. Ed sputtered and twisted his head sideways to avoid an eagerly lapping tongue. "Ack, get off, Hayate!"

"Hayate,  _off_ ," Hawkeye ordered, and the dog's weight immediately vanished from his chest. She leaned over to check on him with an apologetic look, still dripping water from her hair. "Sorry about that."

"I'm used to it," Ed said in defeat, swiping his sleeve across his chin. When he happened to glance past her, he was baffled at the multitude of boxes stacked up inside the apartment. "Are you moving?"

Hawkeye glanced back at the boxes and heaved a sigh. She waved at him to come in and shut the door. "I just haven't had a chance to unpack since we came to Central. I was hoping to get to it this weekend, but I think the Fuhrer's going to keep me busy for awhile."

Ed stilled at the remark and turned to her with a pang of concern. "Yeah, I heard about that. I was...I mean, are you going to be alright?"

Hawkeye touched her chin in thought. "Well, it depends on how you look at it," she said frankly. "This close to him, it just means I have a better chance to kill him in his sleep."

Ed's eyebrows flew up, and he chuckled nervously. "You scare me sometimes, you know that? Oh, right. Here..."

He dug the gun out of his jacket pocket and gave it to her, trying not to wince when the congealed blood from Gluttony's stomach stained her hands. Hawkeye didn't shy away from the blood, but she gave him a strange look before moving to the kitchen cupboards to take out a tray and some stained rags like the ones Winry used when she worked on automail. "This'll take me awhile to clean up. I have tea brewing on the stove if you want."

"Okay, sure," Ed replied, and when she passed him a pair of mugs, he poured it out for both of them and took a seat at the table where Hawkeye had laid out all her cleaning equipment. She went about it with methodical precision, her hands working smoothly and adeptly like she had done this a thousand times. Ed watched in fascination as the gun was soon dismantled into its base components, nothing more than bits and pieces of useless metal strewn across the cloth. No longer the fearsome weapon that could end a life with the squeeze of a trigger.

When Hawkeye piled the unused bullets to the side, Ed cleared his throat. "I didn't shoot it."

"I'm glad you didn't need to," Hawkeye said without looking up.

"It's not that I didn't need to," Ed amended. He hung his head, ashamed and unable to meet her eyes. "I just...I couldn't pull the trigger. It's pathetic, huh? My friends were all in danger, one step away from getting killed, and all I could think was that once I pulled that trigger, there was no going back. I don't have that kind of resolve, I guess. I  _can't_ kill someone, not even to save someone."

"I don't see it that way," Hawkeye said gently, still working to clean every little metal piece. "You are a very compassionate person, Edward. When I was a cadet, I had to learn to push back that compassion toward the one I was shooting or else I could never have pulled the trigger either. To me, it's your resolve  _not_ to kill that should be cherished."

The knot of guilt and turmoil in Ed's gut slowly unwound. The resolve  _not_ to kill. When she put it that way, it didn't sound so bad. He would remember it the next time someone put a gun in his hand and told him killing was the only way. It  _wasn't_ the only way, and he shouldn't be the only one to acknowledge that. That was the whole reason he had stopped Winry from...

His hands clenched around the mug, and he had to quickly unclench his left hand when the heat stung his fingers. He didn't want to think about that, about his best friend wielding such a deadly tool against another person. Even if Scar had been the one to kill her parents, even if Ed had wanted to pound the bastard into a pulp, even if letting him live might have meant the deaths of more alchemists...he had known deep down that ending Scar's life for the sake of vengeance would have been wrong. He couldn't even quite explain it to himself. Only that there would have been no purpose to his death, just as there had been no purpose to the deaths of her parents. And he  _could not_ see Winry become the instrument of such meaningless slaughter.

"I am sorry, Edward," Hawkeye said, and her quiet remorse startled him. "I'm beginning to think I never should have given this gun to you, even if my intent was to protect you. I should have trusted you to protect yourself in your own way."

She gave him a rueful look. "Forgive me for saying it, but part of me still wants to shield you as I would a child. But you made it perfectly clear back there that you're no child to be looked after."

"Try telling Mustang that," Ed muttered bitterly, taking a gulp of tea. "I can't believe the way he yelled at me when I told him about my plan to lure Gluttony out. Didn't even think about what we could gain from it, he just  _scolded_ me! Acted like I didn't even know what I was doing!"

"You'll have to forgive him too," Hawkeye added with the ease of long habit. "I think the colonel is beginning to realize that you're coming to an age when he won't be able to protect you from all of the horrors in this world. It's made him even more determined to keep you under his wing for as long as he can."

"Under his  _wing?_ " Ed said in disbelief. "Jeez, you make it sound like he actually  _cares_ about me."

"You don't think he does?"

For some reason, her shrewd gaze caused Ed to shift uncomfortably in his chair. It used to be a given that Mustang didn't give a damn about him and Al. Mustang had made that perfectly clear all those years ago when he threatened to hand over Al to the labs if Ed didn't behave...

...kind of like how Bradley had threatened to cut Winry down if he so much as sneezed wrong. The unintended comparison made Ed go cold inside. Mustang was  _nothing_ like Bradley. Now that Ed had seen what true evil looked like hidden behind a smiling face, he knew to the depths of his soul that Mustang wasn't as heartless as the mask he put on for the rest of the world. Like anyone else, he had people that he cared for and was afraid to lose. The unadulterated fear in his eyes whenever Hawkeye's name left the Fuhrer's lips proved that.

Watching the lieutenant now, Ed remembered a very enlightening conversation with his brother not long after the incident in Laboratory Three. After Al finished describing the fight with Lust and how Hawkeye had broken down when the homunculus made them believe Mustang was gone, his little brother had turned to him in the darkness of their dorm, glowing eyes radiating a kind of wonder and longing.

_I think...I think she loves him._

Suicidal curiosity almost made Ed ask her about it outright. But then if he did that, Equivalent Exchange would demand the same from him, and Ed wasn't quite  _that_ suicidal. But if her feelings for the colonel really ran so deeply, then maybe she could give him a proper answer on something else that had been bugging him. Because she would understand better than anyone, maybe even Mustang himself.

"Can I ask you something, Lieutenant?" Ed began haltingly. "Why did Mustang recruit me, really? I know it wasn't just for his reputation, not when there were plenty of others he could have chosen. And if our secret had ever been uncovered, he would have lost everything overnight. If he's so determined to advance the ranks..."

"Did he ever tell you  _why_  he's working so hard to advance?"

Ed faltered. "Well, no. I asked him once, but he just brushed me off. And he was the same way when I asked him about Ishval..."

Her hands stilled right in the middle of putting the gun back together. Then they moved again, slowly slotting all the little pieces back into place before returning the unloaded weapon to a waiting holster. The bullets remained in plain sight as Hawkeye folded her hands before her, staring at her own knuckles rather than at Ed. And her reaction was so reminiscent of the way Mustang had looked back in the pub that Ed couldn't believe he hadn't realized it before.  _She had been there too_.

"Can I ask you about that?" Ed said slowly, watching her. "It's just...there are so many things I don't know. I can't stand it when people tell me that I'm too young and naïve to understand when I might be expected to go through the same thing someday."

Hawkeye shut her eyes briefly. But when she looked at him, it wasn't closed off and dismissive as so many others had been. "I won't lie. My first instinct is to say no. Not only to protect you, but...to keep you from thinking less of me. But you and your brother have been through horrors that most adults will never come close to understanding. And I believe you will carry this knowledge the same way the colonel and I do. As a lesson to be learned, and never repeated."

Hayate plopped himself down by Ed's leg and nudged his ankle with a cold nose. Ed ignored the request for attention, all his focus on the woman—the  _soldier_ —before him as she began her story.

"I can only speak from my own experience. I was still in the academy when I was deployed to Ishval. It's not unusual for cadets to be sent to the battlefield for their final year of training, and with such a severe troop shortage, they took anyone they could get. After that, I was dragged deeper and deeper into the warzone..."

The mug of tea grew cold in Ed's hand, forgotten as the time dragged on and his mind began to build a picture of the desert nation as Hawkeye described it to him. A harsh and barren country filled with rocks and sand, the birthplace of a stringent religion and a resilient people. And he couldn't help but think of the ruins of Xerxes and the lives of the people who once lived there. Their lives as they must have been before disaster befell them.

"It was hell on earth," Hawkeye whispered. "There's no other way to describe it. When I think of hell, I think of that. The air was tainted with the smell of human decay, and the desert sand soaked up the blood like a sponge..."

The carnage was impossible to imagine. Hawkeye spoke of war as a place where all morals were forgotten, all gods cast aside, leaving only the most brutal aspects of human nature. A place where such heinous sins as murder and torture and rape not only went unpunished, but were almost tolerated. Ed could hardly believe Hawkeye had been a part of that, let alone Mustang, but she spoke as someone who had seen firsthand, her voice heavy with the weight of experience as she described her first kill. And many others besides.

"Most combat is blind. A normal soldier might fire erratically without a clear target in mind. But it's different for snipers. Someone is sure to die when we pull the trigger. Where other soldiers don't always have a direct line of sight on the effects of their actions, snipers do. And of course, the State Alchemists..."

She hadn't been there to witness the alchemic attacks, only the results. And all of a sudden, Mustang's fatalistic attitude when he learned why Scar was out for the blood of State Alchemists made terrible sense. Ed felt sick when he contemplated what it must have been like for the Ishvalans to spend their last moments in fiery agony as entire towns were decimated until there was nothing left but rock and ash. Like they were being crushed by the hand of their own god, no doubt.

But far from thinking less of either Mustang or Hawkeye, Ed found he respected them all the more. For their resolve not only to survive, but to continue on their chosen path and create a country where something like Ishval would never happen again.

But still...

"But even if Mustang  _does_ become the Fuhrer," Ed said helplessly, "how is that going to change the fact that this is a military state?"

"Well, it won't," Hawkeye told him. "The first thing we'll have to do is restore power to the Parliament and make it democratic again. Only after the full extent of the military's corruption is brought to light can this country move forward."

"W-What do you mean?" Ed said slowly, disturbed by her stoic demeanor.

Her eyes went to the holstered gun. "For example, those who were praised as heroes during the Ishvalan campaign would be brought to trial as war criminals. After all we've done...we would be seen as mass murderers."

Appalled, Ed planted his hands on the table and jumped to his feet. "And the colonel's trying to make sure this happens? That's like committing suicide! You two shouldn't have to pay for any of that! The homunculi were the ones who started this, they should—!"

"Even if they caused it," Hawkeye said decisively, meeting his eyes without fear, "we were the soldiers who carried it out. I can never forget the people I've killed, Edward. I refuse to assign blame when it was always my choice to follow those orders."

_Stop making excuses for me! You wouldn't have followed those orders..._

"But it's...it's not  _right,_ " Ed persisted and shook his head, wishing he could make her understand. It wasn't that he thought they shouldn't pay for their crimes. That was their choice, and hell, he'd be a hypocrite if he tried to stop them. But offering up their own lives to their accusers wouldn't accomplish a damn thing. It would only perpetuate the circle, like Winry wanting to kill Scar to avenge her parents. It would be no different than if Ed had stayed in that wheelchair for the rest of his life, convinced that to stand up again would be to hurt his brother even more.

Hawkeye reached forward and touched his arm. When he looked up, her smile was reassuringly warm despite the sadness in her eyes. "You don't have time to worry about us. You and your brother need to focus on getting your bodies back. You've got plenty of people waiting for that day."

"Even...even the colonel?" Ed asked quietly.

Hawkeye nodded. "Especially him. And you know, I think that's why he never told you about any of this. He chose to help you and Al precisely  _because_ it was a purpose worth risking everything for. It's a chance for us to do something right. Besides, he knows better than to ask more of someone than they can give. You don't need to be dragged into our business when you have Al to think of."

Ed dropped his gaze, more troubled than ever. From what Hawkeye had told him, Mustang had gone to great lengths to handpick the subordinates that would support his rise to the top. But never once had he come up to Ed and sought out his loyalty, not even with Bradley making veiled threats about using Ed against him. Maybe it was like Hawkeye said, maybe he thought Ed had enough to worry about, but the burden that Mustang carried made his own scars look paltry by comparison. This was not something the colonel could do alone, and certainly not from a grave. He had to stay alive so he could topple Bradley and return some of what the homunculi had taken. And he would need all the help he could get along the way, especially now that most of his supporters were scattered across the country.

But Bradley hadn't counted on one thing. The Fuhrer might hold all their leashes, but even now Mustang remained at the head of the pack. They still looked to him, not as their master, but as their  _leader_ , their alpha. And that, Ed thought as he left the apartment building and set off down the street, made all the difference in the world. He lifted his head to the starry sky, wondering what Al would say when he told him about Mustang's plans for atonement by firing squad. Then he snickered to himself. Who was he kidding, he knew  _exactly_  what Al would say.

_Making the decision to die is something only an idiot does!_

"Guess we're not all that different, are we, Colonel?" Ed whispered. He slid his hands in his pockets, his automail clinking against the spare change stuffed carelessly in the right one. And that reminded him of something else he had yet to return, the 520 cenz he had borrowed from Mustang to make that call. Ed smiled to himself, metal fingers curling around the coins.

Maybe he'd hang onto that spare change for just a little longer...


	9. Epilogue: Colonel Roy Mustang

The most interesting thing about blindness, Roy concluded, had to be the fact that, in his dreams, he could still see. The images his subconscious mind showed him were grainy, lacking any detail or depth, and he suspected his memory for what places and people looked like would only grow worse the longer he remained this way. The strangeness of it never crossed his mind until he actually awoke the next morning, otherwise Roy might have savored those sleeping hours when he could remember what it meant to see.

But then again, maybe not. Most of his nights since the Promised Day had been taken up with things he would rather  _not_  remember, a sequence of memories and horrors that he knew by heart now. Ishval always came first. Roy would feel the scorching sun and the heat of his own flames, almost close enough to sear his skin. He would hear the distant screaming and catch the fetid reek of stale blood and decaying flesh and hate himself all over again. The roiling emotions would build and build until he was almost physically sick, brought to his knees by the overwhelming guilt...

...then the dream would shift and Roy would be in his office, though gunfire still thundered in his ears and he choked on black smoke that didn't seem to affect the nameless, faceless subordinate across the desk. Despite no outward features, Roy would invariably identify that blank-slated individual as either Hawkeye or Hughes, or even Ed. All of them demanding something of him, some promise he couldn't keep, and his lying mouth would calmly swear the impossible. Yes, he would of course restore Ed's arm and leg. He would of course resurrect Hughes and erase the scar from Hawkeye's back. They could trust him, of course they could. Hadn't he gone to great lengths to ensure they could?

But they knew better. Ed would scream hateful curses in his face and accuse Roy of stringing him along just like his father. Hughes would shake his head sadly and tell Roy not to make promises he had no intention of keeping.

Hawkeye would simply take out her gun and shoot him.

And in the end, he always ended up back  _there_. In the chamber beneath Central with Bradley's swords piercing his palms and pinning him in that deadly array. Roy fought and screamed as the power rose from the shadowed lines and coiled around his body, drawing him into the alchemy like a lover's cruel embrace. And once it hit him, it was like someone had turned his own flames against him. Raw power coursed over him and inside him, broke his mind and shattered his soul, took his body apart piece by piece. The agony was so intense that Roy couldn't even hear himself scream. There was only the fire and the blood and the metallic tang of alchemy and the surety that he had died and was even now burning in hell where he belonged. He half-expected to see Envy's face leering at him, but there was only the horrible pain that blotted out his vision with bright, burning white...

White...

White...

Everything was gone, and only the whiteness remained. That was all that was left, all that was...no, there was something. A shadowed figure and a pair of doors carved with the symbols of flame alchemy. Then the doors opened, and as the darkness within them leapt forth to swallow him, Roy understood only one thing in his mute terror.

This wasn't hell. It was far worse.

Roy came awake with a start, breathing hard, bandaged hands clutching the sheets beneath him. He held absolutely still at first, paralyzed by the darkness that still held him captive, but he eventually calmed and made himself sit up with a quiet snort. The doors or Truth or whatever it was couldn't reach him unless he purposely summoned it. And Ed had assured him that Pride was long gone, which meant no one could force him. Roy took a deep breath, reassured by the bustling noises of the hospital ward, the solid bed beneath him and the strong smell of antiseptic. The battle was over. There was nothing to fear.

As had become his habit now, he reached up and touched his fingers to his eyes. The transmutation hadn't inflicted any outward damage, yet his world was nothing but black. Roy couldn't even see his hand waving in front of his nose. Sighing, he let his hand drop and turned to the left. "Hawkeye?"

No answer. Roy held his breath, listening, and he smiled in satisfaction at the steady beep of the heart monitor. It wasn't really needed anymore, but Hawkeye had understood perfectly what he couldn't put into words when he suggested she keep using it until she was discharged. It was a reassurance of her safety and continued life, even when she wasn't awake to answer him, the only reassurance he had short of hobbling over there and crawling into bed with her.

Roy smirked at the direction his thoughts were taking. That certainly wasn't an unwelcome notion, but...

"Sir?"

"I'm awake," Roy said softly. "What time is it?"

"Seven-thirty in the morning," Hawkeye murmured and yawned. Sheets rustled and bare feet padded across the floor, followed by the squeak of wheels when her IV was moved and various plastic tubing arranged. At last, the mattress dipped beside him. Roy held still as she took his hands to check that the stitches were still in place and no infection had taken hold. He didn't waste his breath telling her that was the nurse's job because Hawkeye would simply ignore him and do it anyway. Instead, he shut sightless eyes and cherished the touch of her hands and the steadiness of her breath beside him. Not for the first time, Roy wished he could see her face. On a normal day, it was difficult to gauge her emotions, but now it was nearly impossible.

"Dr. Marcoh said he would come early today," Hawkeye said finally, releasing his hands. "I spoke to Havoc yesterday after you were asleep. The transmutation was successful, although the muscles in his legs have become atrophied in the past six months. He plans to start physical therapy soon."

"I see," Roy said with a small smile. The news heartened him greatly, though he doubted he would ever forgive himself for what had happened in the Third Laboratory. "He'd better not slack off."

"Lieutenant Breda will make sure he doesn't," Hawkeye said with a slight undercurrent of humor. They lapsed into silence again, but it irked Roy that it was no longer comfortable and easy like it used to be. The very air between them was heavy, loaded with things left unsaid for far too long, and their very refusal to acknowledge it was driving a painful distance between them. Or maybe the distance had been there all along, and it was only now that he realized how much he despised it.

"Is there anyone else in here, Lieutenant?"

Hawkeye sounded puzzled when she answered. "No, sir. I would have told you if—"

"Good," Roy said, looking to where he thought her face might be. It was a little embarrassing that he could be staring off at nothing and not even know it, but he didn't want to say this with his eyes closed. "There's something I need to say to you. Something that may cause you to shoot me, only I hope that's not the case."

Almost at once, her weight shifted away from him. "I...this isn't the right time, sir," she said hastily. "The others will be here soon..."

Roy reached out blindly until his hand came in contact with her shoulder, which he gripped to keep her from standing. His other hand lightly traced across her back until he found her other shoulder, missing the fall of blonde hair that the nurses had hacked off so they could treat her wounded neck. Hawkeye didn't resist when he inched forward and rested his forehead on the back of her neck. She smelled different this close. Less like gunpowder and starched cotton and more like the young girl he had known when he was an apprentice.

"Sir," Hawkeye said, but it was less of a question and more of a quiet plea.

"When you were lying there," Roy breathed, and he felt her head turn toward him sharply, "when I realized what they'd done...I won't lie when I say I nearly gave in. It didn't matter to me that they would succeed in their plans and we would lose everything. For me, I had already lost everything. And all I could think was, in all the years we've been together and lived for each other, I've only ever kissed you once.  _Once_."

He folded his arms around her and drew her right up against his chest. She didn't quite relax against him, but her shoulders fell just fractionally, her head lifted to bare her neck in an almost instinctive show of trust. Roy buried his face in her shoulder, shuddering as he relived the horror of that moment.

"I  _never_ want to feel that way again."

Hawkeye said nothing at first. Then she shifted, turning in his arms until they were face to face. She slipped one arm around his waist and her other hand cupped his jaw, thumb tracing the stubble. "I don't want to be the reason you gave up on your dreams," she said in an almost helpless whisper.

Roy shook his head firmly. "You're the reason those dreams exist in the first place. Besides, this whole thing has shown me that if I want my life to mean something, I can't rest all my hopes on a single dream. Because I  _can_ fail. It could all be snatched away from me in an instant, and there's nothing I can do about it. If Marcoh hadn't offered me the Stone, I would have been forced to find a new dream anyway."

"But you  _are_ going to get your sight back," Hawkeye said with all certainty. "Now that the ones responsible for Ishval have been unseated, you're closer than ever. You'll finally have the power to make a real difference. Isn't that what you wanted most?"

"What good is power without the people I care about?" Roy retorted. He chuckled ruefully and ducked his head. "Jeez, just imagine Fullmetal's reaction if he heard me saying that. He and Al had the right of it all along. Since I can't predict when everything I've worked for will come crashing down, shouldn't I try to hold onto whatever happiness I can? And maybe...maybe it's okay to ask for more. We don't need to keep punishing ourselves. We just need to make it right, however we can."

"I think...that is the most humble thing I've ever heard you say," Hawkeye said, sounding torn between awe and amusement.

Roy smiled, which turned into a grin. He ran his hand down her arm until he found her hand and entwined their fingers. "So what do you say, Lieutenant? Hell, after fifteen years together—"

"Fourteen, sir."

"Fourteen, then," Roy corrected, grasping her hand tightly. "That day in Ishval, you asked me why I waited so long to show you how I felt. Now I have to ask you the same question. What the hell are we waiting for? What's the point of fighting this when one of us could die and we could so easily lose what we never got the chance to have? I don't want to waste any more precious time. So please...tell me you're tired of waiting too."

Hawkeye withdrew her hand from his, only to slide her fingers firmly behind his head and pull him close until he could feel her breath on his face. "I am," she murmured, trembling with a long-buried pain. "I have been ever since the Third Laboratory. When I thought you gone...all of a sudden, the future was meaningless because I didn't  _have_ one without you. I...I love you, Roy. And whatever dreams you decide to follow, I'll never leave your side. I refuse it."

It was truly amazing how such a simple declaration could make the loss of his sight seem like a pittance. For the first time in what seemed like ages, Roy smiled and tipped his head back. "God, I've been waiting my entire life to hear that. I love you t—"

He hadn't even gotten the words out before Hawkeye kissed him firmly and without a trace of reservation. Roy almost smirked at her impatience to get on with things, but he held the comment in and reciprocated eagerly. A soft moan caught in Hawkeye's throat as he drew her close until their bodies were flush, relishing this intimacy that had been denied them for too long. Just the touch of her chapped lips against his ignited an intense passion in him, and Roy couldn't work out if that was because his other senses had been enhanced by the loss of his sight or if it was just  _her_.

Either way, Roy knew for a fact that he had never felt this strongly for another human soul. If he blocked out the sounds and sensations of the hospital, they could have been back in the desert again with nothing around them but the ruins and nothing between them but their vow.

This was everything he wanted. This, right here, was what made it all worth it. Even the failures.

"Oh, what the  _crap._.."

 _I'm going to KILL that shrimp,_  Roy thought vindictively as he and Hawkeye reluctantly parted. The distinctive thump-clink of Ed's footsteps had halted at the door, and when he spoke, Roy could easily envision the brat's Cheshire grin. "Is it safe to let my little brother in? We're not, ah... _interrupting_  anything, are we?"

"Yes, you are," Roy said brusquely and attempted to pull Hawkeye back into his arms. "Go away."

"Sir," Hawkeye chided gently, and her weight left the mattress. Roy heaved a bereft sigh and slumped back down, glaring in the general direction of the door as she greeted the visitors. "Hello, Ed. And you too, Al. Are you feeling better today?"

"I managed to keep my first meal down," Al said proudly. It was still a slight shock for Roy to hear his voice without the hollow echo, and his first instinct was still to look up in search of the armor. "Brother wanted us to be here for this. He wants the colonel to see what I actually look like before we leave."

"I look forward to it" Roy said, heart swelling in both pride and sadness at the thought. He had been waiting for this day just as long as they had, but now that Ed and Al were whole again, he had no choice but to let them go and live their lives as they chose. It almost made him jealous of that Hohenheim bastard who could look at two such strong and selfless boys and call them his own.

A knock came at the door. "Dr. Marcoh is here now," Hawkeye said for his benefit. "And Lieutenant Breda and Sergeant Fuery."

"Havoc'll be here after the doc is done," Breda informed them. "He's keeping the nurses otherwise occupied so they don't come barging in here and see something they shouldn't."

"And Falman?"

"He's...um, indisposed," Fuery said, sounding both puzzled and a little flustered. "Apparently, there's a friend of his in Central that he needed to check in with..."

" _Lady_ friend," Breda snickered.

"...so he'll be along a little later," Fuery concluded hastily.

"Oh, I see," Roy said, biting back a chuckle of his own. "Well, I suppose that takes precedence."

"Are you ready now, Colonel Mustang?" Marcoh asked him. "There should be just enough energy left in the Stone for this, and I expect you're aware of the possibility of a rebound. I only have one chance so I'll do my best to make sure that doesn't happen."

"I'm ready," Roy said and carefully laid down on his back, breathing deeply to steady his nerves. There was some scrambling movement as everyone arranged themselves around his bed, but not close enough to get caught in the transmutation should it go awry. He felt Hawkeye's firm grip on his left shoulder and heard Marcoh grunting as he seated himself on a stool to his right.

"Colonel," Ed said suddenly. "Look, I just want to say...you'd better not waste this, alright? I only agreed to this because you didn't deserve what happened to you. It wasn't like with me and Al, you got dragged into it against your will. But this right here  _is_ your choice, and the lives that went into that Stone deserve to have their sacrifice mean something. So don't screw up!"

"I don't plan on it," Roy promised him. He felt Marcoh set the Stone on his brow and held absolutely still as the doctor laid his fingers over Roy's temples. After a breathless pause, alchemic energy crackled and coursed into his eyes and along the delicate nerves to the occipital lobe at the back of his brain, the raw power encircling his head in a fiery crown.

Roy gritted his teeth, anticipating agony like he had felt when he lay helpless beneath Bradley's swords, but this transmutation was careful and controlled, a caress as opposed to a tidal wave. Bright red light burned the darkness away and dazzled him, and suddenly Roy  _was_ the Philosopher's Stone. He was within it even as it was within him. Desperate, pleading voices echoed in his mind and broken fragments of memory flashed before his closed eyes. Once again he felt a faint echo of the hot desert sun on his face, but instead of bringing a surge of remorse and self-loathing, Roy was swept up in nostalgia and longing. He wanted to return to the desert and taste the sweet cactus fruits and the clear waters of the oasis, to walk in dusty streets with his brethren and kneel before the altars of Ishvala.

This, Roy realized in wonder, was what remained of the Ishvalans that had been sacrificed to create this Stone. These memories and emotions that made up the core of their being, this yearning to return to the place they belonged. To return home where their loved ones waited for them.

 _You'll see it again_ , Roy swore without words. As the handful of souls were snuffed out one by one, the last part of themselves spent making him whole again, Roy held fast to those bits and pieces of individuality.  _I'll take you there, and you'll see your home again. You'll see it through my eyes._

"Did it work?" Ed asked anxiously as the transmutation ended, leaving Roy with only the darkness behind his eyelids. "Well?"

"Sir?" Hawkeye called to him. She brushed the bangs from his forehead. "Roy..."

Roy opened his eyes.

* * *

_A king is nothing without his people, just as they would be lost without him. I learned that one simple fact by playing chess, if you can believe it. The concept seemed so simple back then. Each piece has its place, each one has its own skills and its own position in the hierarchy. The king is the one who leads them and ultimately sends them forth into battle, and if he does not use those pieces wisely and to their fullest potential, even the greatest of kings can fall._

_But there are flaws in that game. Many flaws. The king is not permitted to be in danger, yet my queen often berates me for throwing myself into harm's way at the least opportunity. Knights are the most mobile pieces on the board, and a knight who is immobilized is useless. There are plenty of pawns, all of them exactly the same, and they wouldn't dream of changing sides right in the middle of a game. In chess, numerous sacrifices are necessary so that the higher ranking pieces can stay standing._

_But real life is not a game, and people are not chess pieces. Maybe they started out that way in the beginning, but I can't see them as mere tools now that they have faces and voices. One by one, they became people to me and wormed their way into my heart. For their individuality, I value them. For their loyalty and sacrifices, I love them. I'll never take them for granted, I'll never consider them worthless. How could I now that I know the true value of a human soul? Maybe it's foolish for a king to think this way, but let's face it, I'm only on this throne for as long as it takes them to get fed up with me and knock me flat on the board._

_I will see Ishval restored and give back some of what I have taken. I will send these people forth as my vassals and trust them to do as they have always done. I will ensure this country is set on the right path, but I won't do it without them. Now you know my story, and theirs as well. I am Colonel Roy Mustang, and they are the reason I have made it this far._


End file.
